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SHOEMAKER'S 

FOR 

READINGS AND RECITATIONS 

Numbers 1 to 28 Now Issued 

Paper Binding, each number, - - 30 cents 
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Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who 
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A G>IIectfon of Original Dialogues^ Tatleaux^ Etc* 

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REV. ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. 



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Philadelphia 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by 

P. GARRETT & CO. 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 



Copyright 1897 by The Penn Publishing Company 



PREFACE, 



Out of several hundred manuscript Dialogues, written 
in response to a liberal proposition made by the Pub- 
lishers, we have chosen for publication about one-sixth, 
taking the editorial liberty of condensing, changing, or 
otherwise modifying here and there, such as are now 
presented in this volume. We have sought to furnish 
as great a variety in sentiment and style as possible, 
always keeping in view the fact that Dialogues, to be 
interesting and profitable, must be acted as well as 
uttered. 

Since this Avork first appeared, we have made several 
revisions of the original matter, substituting from time 
to time fresh and timely Dialogues for those which 
seemed to have grown out of date, and in the present 
edition have increased the size of the volume by the 
addition of some twenty pages of entirely new pieces. 

(3) 



4 PREFACE. 

There is no species of recitation in which young peo- 
ple take more delight, or evince more enthusiasm, than 
Declamation or Dialogue; and with a judicious selec- 
tion of subject, and a natural manner of representation 
by voice and gesture, there is no better medium of cul- 
tivating a beautiful and effective style of elocution. It 
is impossible to teach reading successfully', and to 
excite an ambition in the breast of the pupil in this rare 
and pleasing accomplishment, without using lessons 
that call out the natural, conversational tones, the phra- 
seology of every-day life, the vim and voice of repartee 
in play, in work, in trade, in the most common happen- 
ings of home, or school, or journey, or occasion what- 
soever. In a Dialogue, a youngster needs no stilts on 
which to stretch himself and stalk forward on the high, 
dead level of language above his years. Here he feels 
his words, and enjoys their utterance as his own. Here 
he naturally uses the proper tone, inflection, and modu- 
lation, and, without knowing it as a rule, glides into the 
grace of delivery because he watches the immediate 
eflect and listens to the consequent responses of the 
words he utters and means. The vocabulary of these 
Dialogues is not beyond the daily scenes and sounds 
and sentiments of Schooldays. 

Although this Book is composed for the most part of 
carefully written and substantial subject-matter, we have 
admitted quite a number of humorous and amusing 
pieces. The proportion of the latter may be greater 
th«».n will be approved by certain melancsholy religionists 



PREFACE. 5 

who would infuse their moan into the verj' babblings of 
the brook and laughters of the breeze. But v»'e have 
not so far out-grown our own childhood as to depreciate 
the joys of innocent mirth, or to say that the only 
method of correcting bad habits, of language or of life, 
is to frown upon them, or pretend not to see them, or 
dolefully to sigh and sorrow over them as misfortunes 
of the fall, and endure them under the name of crosses. 
Such a self-inflicted penance is more heterodox, in our 
humble judgment, than any creed, which, gospel-like, 
aims to correct these every-day errors of the people. 
Sometimes, indeed, a bit of ridicule, if ingeniously ren- 
dered, is more effectual in destroying an evil of temper 
or of tongue than would be a hundred homiletic dis- 
courses on human depravity, or a temple echoed full of 
daily prayers that word themselves in the phrases of 
Pharisaism. We anticipate the criticisms of the would- 
be models of propriety — the be-solemn bachelorhood of 
literature — and willingly bargain for all their censures 
by giving in exchange our commiseration. It is an old 
saying that " the true orator must know how to excite 
the mirth, as well as how to command the tears of his 
audience." If the children shall enjoy this book, and 
are thereby aided in discovering wrong habits or danger- 
ous tendencies in themselves or others, and are in any 
degree stimulated to better manners and happier life, 
by reading and acting these Dialogues, our object will 
have been more than accomplished, and our time and 
care more th;in rewarded. 



6 EF ACE. 

The art of feeling, and of teaching others how to feel 
the force of language, is most readily acquired from 
the speaking of Dialogues. There is a captivation 
about an exercise that requires a fellow-actor which 
enlists the best attention, not only of the performers 
themselves, but also of the auditors. The speaker re- 
alizes that he is to impress his hearers as much by the 
manner as by the matter of his discourse. Mere routine 
reading, paragraph by paragraph, in parrot-like regula- 
rity of sound, as a task to be told, will become as mo- 
notonous as a bell that is tolled. 

It is said of a prosy minister, that, while, on a cer- 
tain occasion, he was reading to his congregation a 
chapter from the Bible, he put several of his hearers to 
sleep. His voice was kej^ed to a meaningless mono 
tone, and his whole manner was as spiritless and as 
senseless as the muttering of a mill. For some minis- 
ters do go, as machines, b}-- some sort of fuel-fed force, 
rather than by the vital impulses of head and heart, as 
men. So went he, and as an inevitable consequence, he 
rumbled the people off into the land of dreams. Then, 
looking up from his book, and seeing his hearers 
soothed under his voice like babes by mothers' lullabies, 
he became indignant at their stupidity, and wishing to 
make a direct impression, his feeling took action, and 
he seized the Bible with both hands and hurled it at 
their heedless heads, saying, in a far more natural and 
honest manner than that in which he had been reading, 
** If yo'i will not hear the truth, you miserable sinners. 



PEEFACE. 7 

I am determined to make you feel it." That minister 
never delivered a more eloquent passage in his life. He 
felt what he said, if he did not feel what he was reading, 
and he made the people feel just whal he felt himself, 
and perhaps some of them a little more I He was 
aroused and in earnest ; then tone, emphasis, and modu- 
lation, and gesture were natural. He did a foolish 
thing ; but he did it in a forcible and striking manner. 

We haA'e sometimes thought that many clergymen, 
teachers, and parents will have a fearful account to ren- 
der for the indifference with which the}'- read the Scrip- 
tures. What beauties, sj-mpathies, grandeurs, and 
glories are perverted and mutilated b}'^ the task-readera 
of the Sacred Word ! The devil could not more effect- 
aall}"^ burlesque religion than to employ certain dj'spep- 
tic professors of it, to go about reading the Bible I 
Eyes have thej', but they see not. Tongues have they, 
but they talk not. Hearts have they, but they feel not 
Thej' repulse the smiling children by their funereal 
solemnities when nobody has died ! 

xsot long since we heard the eightieth Psalm read 
with such a cog-wheel coarseness and clatter of expres- 
sion that the beautiful petition, " Turn us again," sound- 
ed as thougli it would all be chipped to pieces in the 
machinist's lathe. Frequently on funeral occasions, in 
our hearing, has the fifteenth chapter of the First Epis- 
tle to the Corinthians been so attacked, so wounded, so 
slain, so utterl}' buried by professional friends to its 
glorious truth, that ijj really seemed to us that there 



8 PREFACE. 

would be no resurrection for ever I When will teachers 
and preachers use the means that are natural, accessible, 
and efficient, in training the young to read as they talk ? 
We verily believe that many of the sectarianisms of the 
religious world, arise from an ignorance of the rules of 
emphasis in reading the Bible, rather than from any 
distinct meanings of the truth upon the Blessed Pages. 

An intelligent young Christian student was noticed 
to come into chapel service ever}'^ day regularly after 
the Scripture lesson and singing were finished. The 
Professor called him to an account for his delinquency, 
and he excused himself on the ground of very tender 
feelings, not being able to endure the butchery of hymn 
and Scripture. Said he : " My mother used to read the 
Bible to me, and I can't associate those hallowed memo- 
ries with the heartless roughness I must hear in this 
chapel. I canH do it.''^ He was excused, and the pul- 
pit readings were improved thereafter. 

The subject of reading, or elocution, should occupy, 
if not more time, more attention. The 3^oung should 
be taught to read as they talk, freely, feelingly, with 
the spirit, with the understanding, with all the emphasis 
and action of graceful gesture. Enthusiasm must be 
excited, in some way, ambition aroused, and the natural 
voice called out as a response to the questionings of 
common sense. 

If these Schoolday Dialogues shall be properly 
studied, their lessons fully understood, and their spirit 
fully realized, their delivery will be, we trust, so accept- 



PREFACE. 9 

able and so impressive, that our well-intended labors 
may not have been in vain. 

Alexander Clark. 



COI^TTEIS-TS. 



True Manliness M. L. R. 15 

The Tobacco Pledge Elizabeth E. Ralston. 30 

The New Muff and Collar Kate E. Peet. 34 

Choose tour Words Barbara Broome. 38 

Effects of "War Ceria. 44 

The Two Interpreters of Dreams Hattie Herbert. 49 

The Four Seasons Louise E. V. Boyd. 54 

School Affairs in Eiverhead District. ..(7. W. Deans. 58 

Novel Eeadino 67 

The Demons of THE Glass Oliver Optic. 70 

The Twelve Months Henry H Johnson. 75 

The New Preacher Silonius. 78 

The Seasons Hattie Home. 82 

Little Angels Emma C. Hollinger. 87 

The Young Statesman Beno. 92 

Two AVays of Life H. G.H. 95 

Too Good to attend Common School Eliza Doolittle. 97 

Fireside Colloquy Joseph V/. Leatherman. 101 

Pocahontas Mary Hartwell. 106 

Beauty of Face and Beauty of Sovl.. Abbie J. Thornton. 109 

Uncle Zeke's Opinion TF. H. Sabean. 113 

Spelling Class D. R. Brubaker. 120 

The Two Teachers Hattie Herbert. 1 24 

(11) 



12 CONTENTS. 

Memory and Hope Mrs. L E. V. Boyd. 127 

A Contentious Community. , Eureka. 132 

Lost and Found Emma E. Brewster. 138 

The Tri-Colors Emma Fields. 142 

Annie's Party L. A. B. C. 144 

The Reclaimed Brother ; or, | ^ -^ McBride. 150 

The Chain of Roses. | 

Reformation H. B. Niles. 154 

Seeing a Ghost Julia A. Crouch. 158 

The Motto or Examplf Mrs. C. M. Peat. 162 

Choosing a Trade or Profession Geo. D. Hunt. 169 

Child- Philosophy H. A. Duncan. 174 

The Noblest Hero Alice Gray. 176 

Woman's Rights Emma Ztliff. 179 

The Orphan's Trust R. C. Hunt. 186 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



TEUE MANLINESS. 



CHAEACTEES. 

Mb. Howard, a wealthy gentleman. 

Mb. Wayne, teacher. 

Tom Jones, a blusterer. "i 

Caleb Nott, a toady. [ 

Charles Stephens, son of a poor widow. >- Pupils. 

Harey Dare. I 

Edward Burton. I 



Act I. Scene 1. — The School Room. 

Teacher. — Boys, I have something to tell you after 
school, or rather, you must be prepared to hear some- 
thing. I believe, however, that I had better not tell it. 

Boys. — Oh, please, teacher, do tell us. What is it? 

Teacher. — No, I shall not tell you; but you shall 
hear it this afternoon, nevertheless. Now attend to your 
studies. ^Goes on correcting exercises.^ 

Tom Jones [to Caleb']. — What a mum fellow our 
teacher is, to be sure; isn't he? 

Caleb. — Yes ; he might as well out with it now. 

Teacher. — Attend to your studies, boys. Are you 
talking ? 

Tom. — No, teacher, only Charlie Stephens, he makes 
such a noise with his li^js. {^Charlie looks confused, but 
does not speak.] 

Teacher [severely]. — Tom Jones, how often must I 
correct j'ou in speaking? It is unnecessary to use 
the personal pronoun when you use the noun. A great 

15 



16 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

boy like you — almost a man — should be more careful. 
Charles Stephens, you must make less noise studying; 
you disturb me. 

Tom to [Charlie']. — I'll be even with you for that lec- 
ture; see if I don't. 

Caleb. — Hide his old cap after school. 

[Enter Mr. Howard. Mr. Wayne advances, and they 
shake hands. Boys rise.'] 

Mr. Howard. — I am pleased, Mr. Wayne, to see j'our 
school in such good order. Have you mentioned my 
proposition to your pupils ? 

Teacher. — I have not, sir ; but merely intimated to 
them that they would \\Qixv something. I preferred leav- 
ing it to yourself Boys, yon know who this gentleman 
is? 

Boys [all]. — Yes, sir ; Mr. Howard. 

Mr. H. — Thank j'ou, young gentlemen ; I am glad 
you remember me. [Boys hoio.] Your respected 
teacher tells me that he has jDrepared you to hear some 
particular news. 

Boys. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. H. — Well, I shall now proceed to tell you what 
it is. I am, as j*ou may be aware, a great friend to ed- 
ucation. [Boys how.] Education, my young friends, 
is better than houses and lands — better than gold. But 
mental education, without moral, is worse than useless. 
The boy who possesses one without the other, maj' be 
compared to a man who has eyes, yet is blind ; who has 
ears, yet can not hear. Do 3'ou understand me ? 

Boys. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. H. — Very well. ISTow, that you may learn to 
appreciate the value of moral education, I have deter- 
mined to offer a gold eagle to that boy whose meritori- 
ous conduct best deserA'es a reward. 

Boys. — Oh, thank 3'ou, sir; 3'ou are very kind. 

Mr. H. — Remember, boys, that you all can not get it; 
but the trying for it will be an advantage in many ways. 
First, striving for this prize will beget in j'ou a noble 
emulation. Secondly, 3'ou will, if 3'ou really desire to 
obtain it, practice many virtues — patience, self-denial, 
energy, etc. Thirdly', you will, in the pursuit of this 
pri'se, acquire a habit of perseverance, which alone will 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 17 

be worth many half eagles to you. Fourthly — I believe 
I have no fourthly, except to say, that your term of pro- 
bation will expire in one month from to-day — when I 
shall have the pleasure of bestowing a reward on the 
most deserving, amid, I trust, the approving smiles of 
his noble-minded companions. Good afternoon, 3'oung 
gentlemen ; good afternoon, Mr. Waj'ne. [Exit] 

Boys [all together']. — Who'll get ii, I wonder? I 
mean to try, I don't; 'twould be no use. Ten dollars 
in gold — I wish I had it — etc. 

Teacher. — Boys ; silence I Is this rnde clamor the 
beginning of j^our competition for a reward of merit ? 
Now act more like the gentlemen Mr. Howard calls you. 
As it wants but twenty minutes until the hour of dis- 
missal, I shall let you off now. But tell me, who intends 
to gain the prize ? Tom Jones, do you ? 

Tom. — No, sir ; I couldn't get it if I did try ; and, 
besides, old Howard is rich enough to have offered 
iwenty dollars, and I call him stingy. 

Boys. — Oh, shame ! he had no need to give it at all. 

Teacher. — Thomas, I am astonished to hear you 
speak in such a disrespectful manner; but I hope you 
are not in earnest. Ned Burton, will you trj' ? 

Ned. — Yes, sir; and I'll get it, too. 

Teacher. — Indeed ; how do you know? 

Neb. — Why, I never tried for any thing I didn't get. 

ToM. — You didn't get the book that master offered 
for that problem in algebra, and _you tried for it. 

Neu [^aside]. — I'll get satisfaction out of you, though; 
sec if I don't. 

ToM {^.HneeiHngly']. — Well, maybe you'll get satisfac- 
tion ; but you wont get the ten dollars. 

Teacher. — Charlie Stephens, will 3'ou get it, too? 

Charlie. — Oh! if I only could. 

Teacher. — Why, what would you do with it ? 

Tom [aside']. — Buy a little doll-baby. 

Teacher. — Answer, Charles; what would you do? 
[Charles endeaiiors to speak, but falters, and turns 
away. Tom — behind teacher — places one arm 
across the other, pretending to dandle a baby; 
sings softly, By-o-baby ; buy a dolly loith teirdolr 
lars. Boys laugh.] 
2 



18 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher [musingly']. — I can not understand Charles 
Stephens. 1 would fancy he had some trouble if he 
were not too 3'oung. It must he only silly bashfulness, 
and I must cure him of it. Boys, what ai-e you laugh- 
ing at ? 

Caleb. — Why, sir, Charlie looks so funny when he's 
crying; just like a girl. 

Teacher [sternlyj. — I do not see why a girl should 
look more funny than a boy. Charles, are you crying ? 

Charlie. — No, sir; I am not crying. 

Tom. — Only mighty near it. 

Teacher. — Tom, I insist on j'our being silent, or, at 
least, you must cease these personal remarks. Because 
yon have sense enough to be neither bashful nor vain- 
glorious [looks at Charlie and Ned], you should not 
tease those who are either. Now you can leave, boys ; 
and I wish you, each and all, to try for Mr. Howard's 
prize ; for if he be really pleased with you, his gener- 
osity will not be limited to this act; but I must not tell 
any more. However, I hope you will all deserve it, 
though only one can get it, [Exeunt omnes.'] 



Scene 2. Immediately after Scene 1. — Boys at Play. 

Tom Jones. — I wonder now who will get that tep 
dollars. I call it a mean trick not to give twenty. The 
old miser could afford it just as easy, and then 'twould 
be worth having, though not worth trying for, I say. 

Caleb. — No, not worth trying for, I say, too; but, 
Tom, 3^ou could get it, couldn't you ? Ten dollars arn't 
picked up in tlie street. 

Tom. — Why couldn't you get it, if you are so anxious 
for it ? 

Caleb. — Oh, Tom, 'twouldn't be any use for me to try. 
Old master doesn't think that much of me ; but you could 
wheedle it out of his own pocket, if 'twas only in, you're 
such a pet of his. 

Tom. — No I aint, though. 

Caleb. — Why, didn't you hear what he said to you 
'vhen that cry-baby, Charlie, began to blubber? 

Tom. — Oh, von want to gammon me now. I'm not 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 19 

quite that green, though. Here comes Burton no"w I'll 
teach him to brag. 

Caleb. — Now don't, Tom ; master would be sure to 
hear of it. See what he says first. 

Ned. — I say, Tom, let's have a game of foot-ball. 

Tom \^aside\. — To be sure 1 /ie'« trying for it in earnest 
\_Aloud.'\ How about that satisfaction, Ned ? 

Ned. — Oh, hang the satisfaction [aside] till I get the 
prize. 

Tom. — Well, I'll hang it, if you like. I see you're 
going in to win. 

^-ETi [indifferently .^ — No; I needn't try. There's so 
many better fellows in the school than I am. Besides, 
my father's rich, and I can get ten dollars any time I 
want it. 

Tom. — You think you can 1 

Caleb [sidling up to Ned]. — Ned, I think you've about 
the smartest chance going. I'll tell master how you 
forgave Tom, after all his meanness, and 'twill stand in 
3'^our favor. 

Ned. — Oh, go 'way. I don't want to have any thing 
to say to you. 

Caleb [bitterly']. — You don't, don't you? Well, 
ma3'be 3'Oull come down 3'et, Ned Burton, for all you 
hold yourself so high. [Goes off by himself.] 

Ned. — Where's that little girl, Charlie ? I guess heHl 
get it ; he never does an}' thing wrong ; oh, no, not 
he! 

Tom. — I say, now, that's too bad. If a cry-baby, 
girl-bo3', like Charlie Stei)hens, gets it, I'll leave school. 

Several boys. — So will I. So will I. 

Harry D. — And WI13' may not Charlie got it, as well 
as an}- one else, if he deserves it ; and he wont get it 
unless he'does deserve it. 

Boys. — Oh, preacher ! preacher ! 

Tom. — Ma3'be youHl get it, vou think ? 

Harry. — No, I'll not get it; for I couldn't be the 
best; bat I'm above joining in against a fellow that's 
not here to take his own part, and who is the best of us, 
anyway. 

Tom. — Come now, Harr3' Dare, I like that; mf>.ybe, 
BiHce you're so read}' to talk for the " one that's the 



20 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

best amongst us," j^ou'll be willing to fight for him, 
too. You'll not say he would do ^that for himself, J 
guess. 

Harry. — Yes, I'll fight for him as long as jow please; 
and I am a match for 3'ou, too, Tom Jones, big as you 
are. \_Puts himself in an altitude.'] 

Ned [Jrastily']. — Oh, come now, boys, don't make fools 
of yourselves, fighting about a fellow who hasn't spirit 
enough to open his mouth. 

Tom. — Well, I do not care about fighting, particularly ; 
let's shake hands, Hal [a.sz(/e].- Ned's bound to win; 
how disappointed he is that we don't fight. 1 hate a 
hypocrite. 

Caleb [^approaching hastily']. — I say, boj-s ; oh, what 
I have to tell you I 

All.— What? what? 

Caleb. — Let me get breath — I shall die laughing. 
You know our gii'l ? 

Boys. — No; we don't know your girl. What about 
aer ? 

Caleb. — You don't understand me. I mean the one 
;hat goes to our school — Charlie Stephens. 

All. — Yes, yes; go on. 

Cale^. — Well, while you were talking, I saw him 
scuddin' across the field at a two-forty pace; so, thiuks 
1, I'll see what you're up to. So 1 follows him a safe 
distance, or he'd a heard me. 

Harry D. — Mean spy I 

Caleb. — So, on I sneaks after him, slowly, slowly, 
till he came to that little, rickety, tumble-down hole of 
a hut, at the edge of the woods. So in there my gen- 
tleman goes. You know, none of us never could find 
out where he put up. So, my fine boy goes in ; and I 
sees a hole of a window at one side, so up I goes, giving 
him time to get seated to his piano, as 1 supposed, from 
his high and mighty airs In I peeps, and there — oh, 
my, 1 can't tell you [laughing immoderately]. 

Boys. — Come, tell us, Cale; go ahead with it. 

Caleb. — !»t's too good ; I can't tell you. 

Tom. — You'd better, or I'll shake it out of you. 

Harry 1). — I'd like to shake his mean soul out of him. 

Caleb. — Well, here goes. Oh, gracious 1 I peeped 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2i 

m at the window, and there was king Charlie, with — 
what do you think ? 

All.— What ? tell us what ? 

Caleb. — With — oh, my ! with a great, big, blue check 
woman's apron on. 

All. — Hurrah for Miss Charlie; hurrah for the boy 
with a blue check woman's apron on. Go on, go c?u, 
Cale. 

Caleb.— Yes ; oh, I'll die with laughter. I most 
burst, trying to keep in there. 

Boys [impatiently']. — Well; what was he doing? 

Caleb. — I'm coming to it. What do yon think? 
— wanhing the dishes! 

Boys. — Hurrah for the dish-washer! 

One. — I'll tell my mother to hire him — she wants & 
gal. 

Another. — I'll hire him myself. I'm going to house- 
keeping. 

Tom. — Now, Harry, what do .you say for your para- 
gon ? I believe that's the word ; aint it ? 

Harry [aside; angrily']. — I did not think he was such 
a milksop. I'll let him go. [_Aloud]: why, perhaps, it 
wasn't him at all. 

Boys. — Oh, now, that wont go down; you know it 
was ; but go on, Caleb — tell us the rest ; did he wash 
them clean ? 

Caleb. — It was the poorest kind of a place, I tell 
you. He was a standing at a little table, where he 
couldn't see me ; but I could see liim. He was a wash- 
ing away, and I heard something else — a woman — talk- 
ing. Charlie was saying: " Motlier, don't you be tiring 
yourself washing little Alice; when I'm done the pots, 
and pails, and kettles, I'll wash her, too ; just you lean 
back in 3'our chair and rest ;" and then the womau says : 
" No, Charlie, this doesn't tire me ; and you have your 
lessons to study, too, for you know I want you to keep 
your place." Now, wasn't that mean — just putting him 
up to keeping us out of our places ? 

Tom. — I say, boys, let's go, after school to-morrow, 
and see Charlie washin' dishes. Say, shall we? 
Boys. — Yes, yes; let's go. 



212 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Harry. — 1, for one, will not go. I'm no eavesdropper 
nor spy. 

Caleb. — Do you mean to say I am ? 

Harry. — Yes. 

\_Caleb slinks away. Approaches Tom, and in dumb 
shoiv, asks him to fight Harry.'] 

Tom. — No, no ; fight your own battles. I've enough 
for me. Come, boys, let's go home, and dream we've 
nabbed old Howard, and each got a ten dollar gold 
piece. yExeunt.] 

Ned. — I'll go along to keep them in order; 'twill go 
hard with me, but I will win this reward ; pshaw, this 
ten dollars, I mean. With it, I can reach the city at 
last, and then good-bye to being a good boy. [Exit 
slowly.'] 

End of first Act. 



Act II. Scene 1. — Charlie sitting on a log at the edge 
of the woods, in a desponding attitude. 

Charles. — No, I can not endure it any longer. I will 
leave school, though to do so, will be to give up all ray 
bright dreams, all my cherished hopes ; for, poor boy 
though I am, I have dreams and hopes. Yes, I have 
dreamed of a time when I could support ni}'^ dear mother 
and my little sister. [Here 3Ir. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
approach, unperceived ; they see Charlie, and stop. 
Charlie continues.] When the education she has 
worked so hard to give me, might be made the medium 
and the evidence of my gratitiKle to her. I have hoped, 
but it is no use. For three weeks, my schoolmates have 
taunted and jeered me. Some way they have found out 
how I worii, and every moment they can, they taunt me 
b}' saying, " Polly, put the kettle on," or ask me if my 
disbsloth is clean, and the baby's face washed ? Oh I 
if one of them had a sick mother, who still sewed day 
after day, and far into the night, how gladly I wouhl 
help him with the work he did to help her. I would not 
call him a girl-boy nor tantalize him ; but I must give 
it up. Mr Ross will give me three dollars a week 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 23 

to mind his store, and I must take it. If 1 could only 
get that ten dollars, it would enable mother to take a 
rest, and then she would get well; but I need not think 
of it ; they are all against me, even Mr. Wayne. [Bises, 
and exit dowly. Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne look at 
each other.'] 

Me. it. — Is that boy one of your pupils, Mr. Wayne ? 

Mr. W.— He is, and he seems in great trouble. 

Mr. H. — Yes, but it is such as can be easily remedied, 
I hope. What is it ? 

Mr. W. — Well, really, Mr. Howard, I am half ashamed 
to say that I do not know. Charles Stephens has 
always been so reserved that I could not understand 
him, and I dislike any thing like secretiveness above nil. 
I can forgive what to others might seem graver faults, 
if accompanied b}' an upright spirit. There's Tom Jones, 
for example ; he is heedless, often displays a spirit of 
rebellion, but still, he is so candid 

Mr. H. [interrupting']. — Excuse me, ray dear sir, but 
I do not think that Tom Jones' candor, which may 
really be only a spirit of bravado, should extenuate the 
commission of the faults you mention. I happen to 
know something about him myself. As for this other 
boy, what faults do you find in him beside the reserve 
you so dislike ? 

Mr. W. — I must sa.y I can not find any fault with him 
except on that score — he is quiet, obedient, and studious. 

Mr. H. [xoarmly]. — My dear sir, what more would 3'ou 
have? We must not look for perfection in a school 
boy. I shall be satisfied with a very good one, for whose 
benefit I can expend a portion of my superfluous wealth. 
If I find such a one, I shall, as you know, aid him to 
prosecute his studies, enable him to enter college, give 
him a trade or profession, or the means of starting in 
business, as he may prefer, and if he prove worthy, be a 
friend to him for life. I am not an advocate for pos- 
thumous charities. The good I do now may be indefin- 
itely multiplied if my boy, when he grows up, should 
do the same for another, and he for a third, and so on. 
Mr. W. — Yes, I see ; like Benjamin Franklin and his 
dollar, you would extend the sphere of your benevolence 
beyond your own time. 



24 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 

Mr. H. — I don't call it benevolence. I have more 
money than I need, or shall ever use, and I was once a 
poor strugoling bo}^ myself, who Avould have given ten 
years of his life for this chance that 1 offer, of an edu- 
cation. 

Mr. W. — Well, Mr. Howard, I wish to assist you 
conscientiously, therefore, I shall tr^' and find out the 
secret of Charlie's reserve, and give him an equal chanco 
with the rest, of profiting by your liberality. 

Mr. H. — Do not misunderstand me ; it is the most 
meritorious who is to gain the reward, both the present 
slight one, and the future more valuable one, wiiether 
it be Tom Jones or Charles Stephens. 13ufc I would 
like you to find out the cause of his trouble, a^id let me 
know. 

Mr. W. — I shall not fail to do so. \_Exeuni.} 

Scene 2. — The school-room. Boys standing around 
teacher. 

Teacher. — Well, boys, the da}^ after will he the day. 
Already I have seen the truth of Mr. Howard's assertion 
that though all can not gain the prize he has offered, yei 
all would be the better for trying. I think you have all 
been trying, for there is certainly the evidence of it in 
the increased subordination, and diligence of the greater 
number of you, at least. 

Ned B. — Well, teacher, I don't care so much for the 
prize, for, as you know, my father is very rich ; but I 
would like to please you and Mr. Howard, who is so 
kind. 

Harry D. — The hypocrite 1 

Teacher. — What did you mutter, Harry Dare? Don't 
hesitate so ; answer me. 

Ned. — Please, teacher, don't mind making him answer. 

Teacher. — Why not? 

Ned. — I don't want him to be punished — or I 5on't 
mean that; but I do not care what is said of me, if I 
onl^' have your approbation and tliat of my conscience. 

Harry. — Now 1 will speak; I said 

Teacher. — Harry, be silent. Ned Burton, I should 
be sorry to think you did not merit the approval you 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 25 

syjeak of; but your words are almost too fair and good. 
Take care that j'our actions correspond with them. 

Harry. — Master, I will speak, at the risk of 3'our 
displeasure. I said Ned Burton was a h^'poci'ite, and I 
maintain it. 

Teacher. — Can you prove what 3'ou assert ? 

Ned. — No, sir, he can't; he's no witnesses. 

Harry [indignantly']. — Witnesses ! my word is as 
good as yours. 

Teacher. — Well, say what you have to say. 

Harry. — Yesterday you blamed Charlie Stephens for 
not having written his Latin exercise, and when he 
said he had written it, but could not find it, you would 
scarcely believe it. 

Teacher. — Yes, I remember ; go on. [Ned appears 
agitated, hut says nothing.] 

Harry. — At noon, to-day, I wished to get something 
from my portfolio. Ned Burton has one exactlj- like 
mine. I went to my desk, and to my surprise saw the 
portfolio on, instead of inside the desk. I opened it, 
and the first paper I saw was Charlie Stephens' exer- 
cise. Surprised at this, I turned over another leaf, when 
I saw at once the portfolio was not mine. I looked for 
the name, and found it to be Edward Burton. He has 
known of the exercise being there, for 1 have seen him 
looking all through his portfolio since then. 

Teacher. — Edward, what have you to say to this 
charge ? 

Ned. — Nothing, sir, except that it is false. 

Harry. — Look in his portfolio. 

Ned. — Yes, as 3^ou did, sneaking Paul Pryl 

Harry. — I did not pry; your portfolio was on my 
desk, and I thought it was mine. 

Ned. — Oh! yes, that's easily said. 

Teacher. — Bo_ys, cease tliis crimination and recrimina- 
tion. An inspection of the portfolio will settle the ques- 
tion. Tom, bring it to me. 

Ned. — No, sir, 1 deny your right to inspect my pos- 
sessions. He shall not get it. 

Teacher. — Sihall not ! Do you say he shall not obey 
my commands ? 

Ned. — Yes, sir, I say he shall not touch my property 



26 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — Tom, bring me his portfolio, 

\Ned makes an effort to get it, hut is held by seve- 
ral boys. Then assumes a defiant expression.'\ 

Tom. — Here, sir. 

\_Teacher looks through the portfolio, and draios 
forth, the lost exercise. Boys utter various sounds 
of astonishment and horror.'] 

Teacher \_sternly']. — Edward Burton, I am shocked 
and pained beyond expression, to find that one of my 
boys — one, too, whom I trusted, and who but to-day 
made professions so greatly at variance with such con- 
duct — should be guilty of the gre^ wrong of wilfully 
seeking to injure another, and adding to that wrong the 
grievous one of falsehood. You are dismissed from this 
school, and sorry I am to be compelled to say, that in your 
case there are no extenuating circumstances. In order to 
lessen the chance of another gaining an offered reward, 
you hesitate not to subject him to unjust censure, nor to 
expose him to the suspicion of falsehood. Charles, I re- 
gret my hasty action toward you ; as for you, Edward, 
you are no longer a pupil of mine, but if, after long re- 
flection on your wicked conduct 

Ned [interrupting']. — Oh, if you mean I'll want to 
come back, and beg pardon, and all that, you're very 
much mistaken, and as for your dismissal, why if I had 
only succeeded in getting old Howard's ten dollars, I 
intended to dismiss myself right oft', for I am sick of 
this low school, where rowdies and dishwashers get all 
the favors. You wanted to find me out a villain, and 
now pretend to be sorry that 3'ou.r scheme was suc- 
cessful. 

Teacher. — Take your books, and depart ; I will hear 
no more. 

\_Ned collects books, etc., goes to the door, stops, and, 
with, an ironical bow, says :] 

Ned. — Good-by, sir ; I wish you joy of j'our excellent 
Bcholars and your liberal friends, [Exit.] 

Scene 3. School Room-. Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
seated. 
Mr. H.— Well, sir, his mother, you say, appears to be 
dfilicate ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 27 

Teacher. — Yes, sir; it is my honest opinion that one 
year more of lier present existence would terminate it. 

Mr. H. — And she says that, but for this son, she 
could not manage to get along? 

Teacher. — Yes ; Charles has, when freed from his 
school duties, earned, on an average, from one to two 
dollars a week by doing various little services for the 
farmers living about here, particularly, carrying mes- 
sages, an office in which he is inA'aluable ; they say, he 
never makes a mistake, never requires to be told twice, 
and is always punctual and prompt. 

Mr. H. — 1 t-hink more of his assisting his mother in 
her housework, for that shows a spirit which is above 
false pride, a quality I detest. So many boys are ruined 
by the pernicious idea that it is degrading to do aught 
that seems, to their perverted view, unioomanly . A 
want of manliness is degrading ; but few of the young 
understand that true manliness consists in doing our 
duty, whatever it may be, unmoved by the sneers of 
others. But, I say, Mr. Wayne, I am a pretty good 
judge of human nature, or boy nature, am I not ? 

Mr. W. — I must say, you are, sir. Your penetration 
in this case was greater than mine. 

Mr. H. — Ah, ha I I thought you would agree to that. 
Well, time is nearly up ; and now be sure to tell the 
boys every thing; that is, tell them all about Charlie's 
devotion to his mother; bub do not, of course, say any 
thing of my intention to provide for his mother and 
sister until he is able to do so himself 

Mr. W. — I shall attend to it, sir. 

[_Enter hoys. They how to Mr. Howard and teacher, 
and stand in order.'] 

Teacher. — Well, boys, this afternoon will decide 
whioh of you will obtain the reward offered for good 
conduct by your kind friend, Mr. Howard ; a reward, 
which, as I intimated, will not stop at the sum of money 
offered to-day. Take your seats. 

Mr. H. — No, young gentlemen, the one who is proved 
most worthy shall receive substantial and lasting evi- 
dence of my good-will. Your teacher tells me that you 
bave, with one exception, appeared actuated by a desire 



28 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to improve. I trust this improvement will continue, and 
I shall feel a pride and pleasure in continuing the warm 
friend to education, as manifested in this school, that 1 
always have been. Mr. Wayne, will you proceed ? 

Teacher. — As Mr. Howard has said, I have been 
pleased to see a decided improvement in many of you, 
and all of j^ou have merited in different degrees. I have, 
however, alread}^ decided upon the one, who, judged by 
his actions in school and out of it, has best deserved 
the prize. l_Sensation among the hoyn.'] But, before 
announcing his name, I shall first tell you a little story. 
Not very far from your school house there is a little 
cottage, in which dwell a widow and her two children. 
These children, the elder of whom is a boy, she has sup- 
ported by the constant and untiring, though not alto- 
gether unaided labor of her hands. The aid she has 
had was given by her son, in the intervals of his school 
duties. But I sliould have said that this poor woman 
has contrived to keep her son constantly at school, 
hoping that the education he thus acquired would be the 
means of enabling him to support her when she could 
no longer provide for him. He assisted her in various 
ways, earning now and then a little money, but most of 
all in her housework. \_Boys appear surprised.'] Yes, 
young gentlemen, though you may think it derogatory 
to the dignity of a boy, it seems he did not. His mother, 
whose health was enfeebled by her efforts in behalf of 
her children, would have sunk long ago had not her 
tasks been lightened by her devoted assistant, who took 
upon himself the hardest, as well as the most menial, 
duties of the household. It is unnecessary^ for me to 
enumerate in detail all that he did. Although his school- 
mates had frequently ridiculed his sensitive and retiring 
disposition, they went no further, until, by some unfor- 
tunate, and, J fear, underhand means, they discovered 
his mode of spending the hours given by them to play. 
From that moment there was no more peace for him. 
At every opportunity, he was saluted b^^ such terms as 
dish-washer, bal)y-tender, and similar ones. This be- 
came at last so unendurable that he resolved to quit the 
school, and take a situation in a store. Against this 
determination his love of knowledge and his mother's 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 29 

wishes hoth contended, and in the end prevailed. That 
you may not under-estimate the heroism of his course — 
for heroism it certainly was — in thus continuing to en 
dure the taunts and jeers of his school-fellows, I shall 
merely say, that his sensitiveness is so great that, on 
one occasion, being unjustly and harshly accused of a 
fault, he was unable to defend himself, and only chance 
revealed the truth. This boy, whose true manliness ena- 
bled him to endure contempt and ridicule, rather than 
swerve from the path of duty, is, I need scarcely add, 
one of your own companions; and to him is adjudged 
the pri^e, with, I hope, 3'our approval. 

Boys. — Yes, indeed, sir ; he deserves it. We didn't 
know his mother was sick, etc. 

Mr. H. — Yes, young gentlemen, you truly say he de- 
serves it; and I am glad to know, by the heartiness of 
your replies, that you speak as j'ou think. Charles 
Stephens, by the decision of your teacher, and the 
approval of your school-mates, you are entitled to the 
prize. And while I commend your example in the past 
to tliem, I trust that neither you nor they will ever be 
led away from the right by ridicule, and never cons'idet 
any service that is done for a mother as detracting in 
the slightest degree from your character for Tkue Man- 
liness. [^Curtain falls.'] 



30 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE TOBACCO PLEDGE. 



CnARACTEES. 

John Lossing. 

Albert Miller. 

Mr. Wise, their Teacher. 



Albert. — Good morning, John. Where is your craft 
bound for so early ? 

John. — Good morning. As you are trj'ing to talk 
sailor style, I will try, too. My craft is steering, all 
sails set, for school. A delightful harbor, where all such 
vessels as ours may anchor in safety from the storms of 
temptation, sure to assail those who remain out at sea. 

A. — Well done. That's first rate. But come with me 
to the grocery, and then I will go with you to school. 

J. — Why, what do you want there? 

A. — I coaxed five cents from father, last night, and I 
am going to have some cigars. 

J. — You have never smoked any, and they will make 
you sick. I would rather not go. 

A. — Oh, come along, and I will give j'ou one. We 
will have some fun, I'll warrant. 

J. — I thank you. I never use tobacco, for a number 
of reasons. One is, " It is a wicked waste of money." 
Just think : if 3'ou begin now, at eleven years, and spend 
five cents a day until 3'OU are twenty-one years old, to 
what it will amount. What a number of good books 
and papers it would get! $182.50; count for yourself. 

A. — But every bo,y, who is an}^ thing of a man, smokes, 
and I am as much of a man as an}^ of them. Why, all 
use it when they get big, and you will, too. It is just 
because j'our mother will not let you. 

J. — No, that is not the reason. But my mother has 
shown me that it is a sin, and a poison that will destroy 
my health. And I promised her I would " Touch not, 
taste not, handle not the unclean thing." 

.4. — My father uses it, and so does our minister, and 
nearly every body I know. And they would not use it 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 31 

if the/ thought it was a sin. Why, ministers preach 
against every thing that is wrong, and I have seen them 
chewing in church. Now, what can you say to that ? 

J. — They do not view the subject in the right light, or 
they would not do so. Mother says, the Bible forbids 
" Using our money for that which is not meat, or our 
substance for that which satisfieth not." Now if it is a 
poison, it is not meat ; it will not sustain life There- 
fore, it is wrong. 

A. — Yes, 3'es ; that may all be if it is a poison ; but 
how are you going to prove that ? It has been raised 
for hundreds of years, and I have never seen or heard 
tell of a case of poisoning from tobacco. 

J. — It can be proved, both by chemistry and physiol- 
ogy, that it is a poison. And if no one uses enough at 
one time to kill him, yet the continued use will debilitate 
the body, and bring on diseases which do end in death. 

A. — I do not know any thing about chcmistr^^ ; but I 
would like to know a part of what you seem to know 
so well. 

J. — Any reliable work on chemistrj^ will tell you that by 
analj'sis a property has been discovered, called nicotine. 
This is so poisonous that one drop placed on the tongue 
of a cat will kill it in live minutes. Chemistry says, 
that the effect of tobacco, in small quantities, on the 
human frame is of a very pleasing character for a time : 
the nerves are quietly lulled into a xQvy comfortable 
feeling, and may for the moment endure more than they 
can unstimulated. But after the undue stimulus is over, 
they are weaker than before ; and thus begins the slow 
but sure undermining of life. 

A. — " Why, how you talk !" It all sounds very good ; 
but I intend to ask some one else. I shall not take your 
word for it. 

J. — I do not want you to take my word for it. But 
just reflect how many persons Vv^e see who are pale, and 
nervous, by smoking ; complaining of headache, dyspep- 
sia, weak stomach, etc. All this is caused by imposing 
upon the stomach with the use of tobacco. 

A. — You say it makes headache ; I say it cux-es tooth- 
ache. I have seen it done more than once. 

J. — Yes; it cures the toothache on the same principle 



32 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

any other narcotic would. But here comes Mr. Wise, 
on his way to school, and we can walk along, and ask 
him about what I have said. He understands chemistry 
and physiolog-y, 

A. — Ha ! ha 1 ha 1 That will not do you any good. 
Choose some one else. 

J. — What is the matter ? Why will he do me no good ? 

A. — See, he is smoking now. Do you expect him to 
take his cigar from his mouth, and say : " Yes, I am 
poisoning myself. I am using my mone}^ for that which 
is not meat. I am sinning "/" Hal ha! that is too 
funny. 

J. — No ; I do not want him to answer so ; neither do 
I intend to ask the questions. You must do that. It 
would sound like impertinence from me, while you can 
do it with perfect propriety. 

[3Tr. Wise approaches, smoking. They meet.'] 

A. & J. — Good morning. 

Mr. W. — Good morning, boys ; I am glad to see you 
out so earlj^ You were very busy talking when we met ; 
may I know what it was about ? 

J. — Yes, sir; and we want you to decide which of us 
is right. 

Mr. W. — Well, what is it? I will decide justly, to 
tYie best of my knowledge. 

A. — I wanted John to go with me to get som^e cigars, 
and he tried to make me believe that it was wrong, and 
that any person who knew any thing about chemistry 
would acknowledge there was poison in tobacco. 

Mr. W. — What else did he say, that you want my 
opinion concerning? 

A. — Oh, much more. He said the Bible forbade us to 
use our money for that which is not meat, etc. He said, 
if tobacco would kill, it was not meat, and that it was 
wicked to waste our money so. 

Mr. W. — It is true, it is wrong to spend our money 
iieedlessly. But how does he prove the rest ? 

A. — Let him tell it as he told it to me. 

J. — The chemical analysis of tobacco has discovered 
a poison called nicotine so active that one drop placed on 
the tongue of a cat will produce death in five minutes. 

A. — Is that true? Is that true, Mr. Wise? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 33 

Mr. W. — His authority is very good, I believe that 
statement is correct. But, John, you do not know of 
any person being killed by tobacco, do you ? 

J. — I do not, sir. But a great many weak and sick 
persons complaining of headache, dyspepsia (and I 
know not what else), are made such by debilitating the 
stomach with tobacco. 

Mr. W. — You said before tobacco was stimulating ; 
how then can it debilitate ? 

J. — The very fact that it stimulates at one time is 
proof of debility afterward. And you know, sir, these 
secretions of the glands of the mouth are absolutely ne- 
cessary to assist the stomach in its office of digestion. 
When the saliva has become saturated with tobacco no 
one swallows it, but expels it ; thus the stomach is de- 
prived of this help, and becomes diseased or overworked. 

A. — Well, it's not wrong for old folks to smoke. It 
is such a comfort when they get so old and blind they 
can not read to enjoy themselves. 

J. — They are then only suffering from its use when 
young. Perhaps if they had never injured their eyes 
with the use of tobacco, their sight might not have failed 
so seriously. It has a powerful effect upon the eyes. 
If you were to smoke a cigar now it could be told on the 
eyes as easily as any other way. 

A. — Why, I never heard any person talk so about to- 
bacco in all my life. I have heard them scold about it 
being dirty and hateful, and all such. But is this true, 
Mr. Wise ? If it is, I will never use it. 

Mr. W. — John, you reason like a scholar. Although 
I use tobacco, I dare not dispute you. You have reli- 
gion and science on your side. But who taught you 
this ? You are too young to have learned yourself 

J. — My mother taught me, sir ; and I promised her I 
Would " Touch not, taste not, handle not thp unclean 
Cling." 

Mr. W. [throwing away his cigar']. — You are right, my 
Doble boy. I have thrown away ray cigar, and will sign 
your pledge of " total abstinence." I have reasoned and 
smoked against my own convictions long enough. You 
have a worthy mother ; I wish there were more such. 

J, — I signed no pledge, sir ; but gave my word, 
3 



34 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 

which I intend to keep as faithfully as if written on the 
Bible. 

A. — Can't we get up a pledge ? I want to sign, and 
get others to do so, too. 

Mr. W. — You draw one up and see what success yon 
will have. Your cause is a good one. 

A. — I would, sir, if I could, but I can not compose it 
right. 

Mr. W. — John will help you. Here is a pencil and 
paper — now go to work. 

[After a short whispering, they approach with the 
following .•] 

A.— Will this do, sir ? \_Beads.'] 

Whereas our school-mate, John Lossing, has proved 
to us that the use of tobacco is both morally and physic 
cally wrong, therefore, we, the undersigned. 

Resolve, 1st, We will " Touch not, taste not, handle 
not," tobacco in any shape or form. 

Resolve, 2d, We will do all we can to persuade others 
of our friends to join us. 

Resolve, 3d, If we live to become men, and are in- 
trusted with the office of hiring teachers for youth, or 
ministers of the gospel, we will patronize none who use, 
or advocate the use of tobacco. 

Mr. W. — That will do very well ; but we will adjourn 
now. It is school time. 



THE NEW MUFF AND COLLAR 

CHAEACTEES : 

Mk. Stubbs, an honest country farmer. 
Mrs. Stubbs, a great lover of dress. 
Me. Urgem, a city merchant. 



Scene 1. — A store in Boston. 

Mrs. Stubbs. — My dear, you would have forgotten to 
purchase me a muff, had I not mentioned it to you, and 
this gentleman saj's he has some very cheap, and made 
xipon honor. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 35 

Mr. Stubbs. — A muff! my dear, you must be too well 
acquainted with the shortness of my purse, to make such 
a demand. I have already expended so much by pur- 
chasing one nick-nack and another, that I fear we shall 
')e short home. 

Mrs. S. — But, dear, what will people say if I return 
without one? It will make a town talk. \_Turning to 
the merchant.'] You say that you can afford them on 
reasonable terms ? 

Mr. U. — Cheaper and better than you can find them 
in any other place in town. Just look at them. [Ope??s 
a box on the table or counter, and displays some.'] 

Mrs. S. — Well, I guess myhusband wont object to my 
taking one, if they are good and cheap, as j^ou say, for 
he is commonly pretty good natured. [^Turning to her 
husband.] Oh, my dear, only see what beauties they 
are ! These are nice. My dear, you canH object to my 
having one, they are so nice. 

Mr. S. [in a low tone]. — I suppose they are very ex- 
pensive, and why do you urge me to purchase one, when 
I have not half the money at command ? 

Mrs. S. — Oh, Mr. Urgem is some acquainted with you, 
and he seems to be very kind. I dare say he will trust 
you. [To the merchant.] How much are your muffs 
and collars ? 

Mr. U. — Only seventy dollars, ma'am, and they are 
very fine for that money. 

Mr. S. — Seventy dollars! the Lord forgive such ex- 
travagance as that would be, in us poor folks 1 My 
dear, if the muffs are worth that money, let us leave 
town, for I tell you at once, I can not purchase one 
without robbing our family of necessaries. 

Mrs. S. — Oh, stay one minute. I dare say the gen- 
tleman will take off some from the price. Don't be 
scared at ti'ifles. 

Mr. TJ. — If I do, madam, it will be only that you 
might have one. Wont 3^ou take a muff without a collar, 
that will come very low? We sell them at only twenty- 
five doFars. What do you say, sir? [Turning to Mr. 
S.] Come, your lady wishes for one very much, and it 
will be a great addition to her appearance. 

Mr. S. — Whv, I say, sir, that I am unable to get so 



36 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

much nxoaey by any honest means, and as for turning 
rogue to purchase my wife a muff, I shall not do it. 

Mes. S. — Why 1 now, I think you very unkind. What 
Is the lowest figure you will take ? 

Mr. U. — Why — really, ah — rather than you should 
not have one, j'ou may take it at twenty-three dollars. 

Mrs. S. — There, now, see how kind he is, and he'll 
trust you, too. I dare say, he's seen your face in Bos- 
ton before now — have you not, sir ? 

Mr. IJ. — Oh, yes, madam ; I haA-e seen him before, I 
assure you. 

Mrs. S. — Come, now, I don't see as you can make one 
objection, only think now, only twenty-three dollars, and 
you'll make that in some fortunate bargain. Come, my 
dear, there isn't such a nice muff in Bogtown. 

[Jfr. S., silent, turns his back towards Mrs. S., and 
walks slowly across the Jloor.'] 

Mr. U. — And you must have a collar, madam ; it wiL 
be quite unfashionable not to have one with such a nice 
muff, and they are very warm and comfortable, I assui'e 
you. 

Mrs. S. \to her husband']. — Yes, my dear, I had about 
as lief have no muf as to be without a collar ; it will 
look so unfashionable. 

Mr. U. — Come, sir, I will put them both at sixty-five 
dollars, and that is absolutely ten dollars less than I can 
really afford them. 

Mrs. S. [to her husband']. — Come, I see that you 
almost give consent; and will you not take pride 
now in seeing me look so much nicer than Mrs. Prink, 
whose furs were called so nice ? 

Mr. U. — Come, do you give your consent that your 
lady may take one ? 

Mr. S. — All the consent I shall give, will be not to 
quarrel with my wife in public. 

Mr, IJ. — Well, sir, as your lady seems to be deter- 
mined to have one, I think that is about equal to consent. 

Mrs. S. [looking at two or three muffs and collar's].— 
I think I will take this muff and collar. My husband 
will settle with you. 

Mr. U. — Please give me your name, sir ? 

Mb. S. — John Stubbs, from Bogtown. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 3T 

Mr. U. \stiffly']. — Ninety days is the longest I give 
credit. 

Mr. S. — Aye, ninety days, I shall not forget it, sir, I 
assure you. \_Exit Mr. and Mrs. Stuhhs.'] 

Mr. IJ. [_alone']. — Was not that a fortunate sale to-day. 
Well, I am lucky for once, and I have realized twenty 
dollars now. \_Scene closed.'] 

Scene 2. At home. 

Mrs. S. — Come, my dear, will you not go to Mrs. 
Tibbs with me this evening ? 

Mr. S. — I thought you didn't care to keep up her ac- 
quaintance; strange — though I forgot you have never 
been there since our trip to Boston. 

Mrs. S. — Well, it is so pleasant out, if it is cold ; but 
my furs will keep me so comfortable. 

Mr. S. — Well, I never saw such a comfortable article, 
for I observe that whatever the weather is, the furs ap- 
pear. They seem to have some good qualities, for I 
observe you have never been absent from church since 
you had them ; and not only have you been a constant 
attendant, but you have urged others to go. In short, 
you take vast comfort from them. 

Mrs. S. — Of course, I take solid comfort in wearing 
them, or I would not have got them ; but you hard- 
hearted, close-fisted men are afraid we shall have any 
thing decent to wear. If you would only take a little 
interest in ladies' dresses, as some of the people do, how 
much pleasanter it would be. 

Mr. S. — If some ladies would only take a little inter- 
est in their husbands' pecuniary affairs, it would be so 
much better for us. That reminds me that this day I 
received a bill from Mr. Urgem, saying that a prompt 
remittance of sixty-five dollars will prevent a presenta- 
tion of the bill and lawyer's fees, and save much trouble. 

Mrs. S. — The unfeeling wretch ! Can he doubt your 
honesty ? And am I the cause of so much trouble ? 

Mr. S. — But, listen. . The great trouble with you is, 
that a whisper in your ear, " There isn't such a nice set 
of furs in all the town," takes awayyour better judgment, 
and just for that sentence I must part with two of my 
l^est cows to settle that amall bill \^Exit Mrs, S-l 



38 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mb. S. [^soliloquizes']. — "Misfortunes cluster," and 
they follow me so closely that were I of that turn of 
mind, I should give up in despair; but my wife needs a 
lesson, for she, like many others, just for the sake of 
having the nicest muff, the costliest gown, the finest 
bonnet, and the best outside appearance of any in town, 
would perplex her husband with debts a lifetime. I 
say this, not that I am austere against the decent fash- 
ions, for once I could indulge my wife in most of her 
wishes. Yes ; many I suppose are suffering as I am, 
and will the ladies ever learn that lesson, not found in 
schools nor school books, other than that of experience, 
that Christian happiness would feel no mortification at 
having a finer muff, a finer hat, or a finer dress standing 
by their own? If their husband's purse require it, they 
would gain more love and esteem in having their hands 
muffled up in the skins of their old cats, than in all the 
furs of the Russian empire. And if experience does not 
teach them the same lesson, I give them lief to call me 
old Pinchpenny to the end of my existence, which, above 
all other names, I should dislike, if there is one name I 
dislike more than another. 



CHOOSE YOUR WORDS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Grandmamma Chamfney. 

Belinda, her granddaughter and namesake. 

Lucy, BeHnda's twin sister. 

Nattie and baby, younger Champneys. 

Mrs. Chamfney. 

Nurse White, a h'EngHsh woman. 



Scene I. — Nursery. Nurse White, rocking baby to sleep. 
Lucy reading. Nattie building a block-house on the 
fioor. Enter Belinda hurriedly, her dress knocking 
down Nattie^s house. He screams with anger. 

Belinda. — Now, nurse3% wont you just sew this ruffle 
in my dress, and tie on my sash ? Mamma has scut for 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 39 

me, and it's the dinner party for grandmamma to-day, 
jj-ou know. Lucy [throwing her a pair of gloves], 
you might mend these ; I am so late. It's time I was 
down stairs, now. 

Lucy. — Why didn't you get ready before? 

Belinda. — In the first place, it took me an age to find 
my things, and then, of course, nothing was ready to 
put on, and — do put down that young one, nurse, and 
come and help me, or I never shall get dressed. 

Nurse [putting down baby, who sets up a deafening 
roar]. — Well, Miss B'lindy, though one says it as p'r'aps 
shouldn't, if you'd h'only be a bit more tidy h'about your 
h'articles h'of h'apparel, you might ha' been dressed in 
proper time, and not 'ave set the 'ouse h'in a h'uproar. 

Belinda. — There now, don't stop to talk. Besides, 
I'm going to turn over a new leaf, for I shall live at the 
hall most of the time now, since Grandmamma Champ- 
ney has come there for good. She told mamma that it 
would renew her own youth to have me there, and 
mamma cautioned me to be very particular and mind 
my manners, as grandmamma belongs to the old school, 
and is very orthodox in her notions. 

Lucy. — Do be careful, then, what you say. 

Belinda. — Fudge I Don't you suppose I know beef 
from a broomstick ? Oh dear me 1 such nice times as I 
shall have. Only think, Lucy, I shall ride in a coach 
and four, and the coachman wears a powdered wig, and 
mamma says her footman is seven feet high ! Then she 
will take me to town, and I shall be presented at court 
sometime, and all because I happened to be named after 
her. How lucky it was for mu that they did'ut call you 
Belinda. My apple cart would have been upset, then. 
Now, Lucy, ain't you sorry ? 

[Lucy shakes her head smilingly, and keeps :n sing- 
ing to Nattie^s and baby^s edification :] 

What ! lost your mitties. 
You naughty kitties, 
Then you shall have no pie. 
Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew ! 

Belinda. — How silly ! Say, Lucy, now really, ain't 
70U scry yoMV name isn't Belinda ? 



40 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lucy. — I don't know. If it had been, what would you 
have done ? I guess it's all right. You care more for 
such things than I do. 

Nurse [hookiyig up Belinda, and nodding her head 
at Lucy']. — Little saint ! 'Ow I wish it were you with 
h'all my 'eart, so I do. H'its h'always B'lindy, B'lindy, 
h'all h'over the 'ouse ; h'especially h'its so with her 
mother ; but h'lve a h'idea Miss Lucy'll 'ave the weriy 
'ighest place h'in 'aeven h'at h'all h'odds. 

Belinda. — What a slow coach j^ou are, Nurse 1 and 
what's that long string you're mumbling behind my 
back? 

Nurse [irately']. — Slow coach, h'am h'l I When such, 
too, as shouldn't be a doin' of it, either, are a slavin' 
theirselves to death a helpin' of you, and then to be 
h'insulted h'in this 'ere h'outrageous and h'imperent 
'ighfalutinum. I must say, as 'ow h'l — h'l — [with a 
great effort] — I — 

Belinda [laughing]. — All in your eye ! Can't you 
see it in that light ? 

Lucy. — Now, Belinda, how unkind that is ! 

Belinda [with sudden contrition]. — Nursey, you will 
forgive me this time, wont you? You know I didn't 
mean any thing. 

Nurse [relenting]. — There 1 I will say, though it's 
80 as -perhaps I shouldn't, as 'ow you do 'ave the win- 
ningest ways for a fact. But your tongue may bring 
you to sorrow, for h'all that. 

Belinda [shrugging her shoulders]. — Now what's the 
use of putting it on so thick ? 

Lucy. — Don't talk so, 'Lindy. Supposing you should 
say that before Grandmamma Champney 

Belinda. — Say what ? Putting it on so thick ? You 
goosey gander, I should be a donkey. What should I 
want to sa}^ that for ? 

Lucy. — I don't mean just those very words. But 
you do talk so much slang, you know. Now what if 
you should forget and say such things down-stairs. 
What would be thought of ,you ? 

Belinda. — Good little sister Prim, henceforward my 
words shall travel by special express train, each one 
lftbelle4 " this side up with care." Will that suit ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 41 

[jgoing out']. Never you fear, but I'll do up business with 
grandmamma in smashing style. 

Scene 2. — Drawing-rooms. Ladies and gentlemen stand' 
ing and sitting in groups, drinking coffee and chatting. 
Belinda appears in the doorway. 

Gentleman [^stepping up to her]. — Fair, shining spirit, 
whence comest thou ? Hast thou strayed from some 
enchanted realm to bewitch us bewildered mortals here 
below ? 

Belinda [bridling']. — I am Belinda Champney, sir. 

Gentleman \drawing her forivard]. — Ladies and 
gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your most favor- 
able notice the queen of all the fairies. Miss Belinda 
Champney. [All the ladies kiss her.] 

Grandmamma Champney [who sits a little ways back]. 
< — So that is Belinda. She looked like the Champneys 
when she was a baby. I see she has all their high-bred 
beauty. She will be a treasure indeed. 

Lady No. 1. — What a little beauty ! 

Lady No. 2. — What lovely hair ! 

Lady No. 3. — Such a sweet expression in her eyes! 

Gentleman. — Visions of rose-leaves and alabaster 
drifting in clouds of serophane will haunt my dreams 
for evermore. Say, cruel elf, may I get you some coffee, 
or do they feed you only on dew-drops and nectar? 

Belinda [quite carried away]. — Not by a long chalk ! 

Gentleman. — I must believe what you tell me, I 
suppose. 

Belinda. — We had roast beef to-day and a jolly York- 
shire pudding. 

Gentleman. — So, so. True English diet. I shouldn't 
wonder then, if you played with dolls sometimes, like 
other earthly maidens. 

Belinda [disdainfully]. — Indeed, sir, I am much too 
old to play with dolls. Our governess, Miss McNabou 
calls me a young ladj^ 

Gentleman. — And so we study a-b abs, c-b ebs, do 
we ? and are verj^ fond of Miss — Whats-her-name ? 

Belinda. — Snap-dragon, I call her, for she's a inufF, 
^nd crosser th^n two sticks. 



42 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 

Gentleman. — How hard a lot is yours ! You bear 
your ills most wonderfully well. 

Belinda. — / guess I don't study all the time, though. 
Papa gave me a pony last Christmas, and I take a ride 
every day on him. He can trot 2.40, I'll bet. 

Gentleman No. 2. — What a perfect little Di Vernon 
It is, to be sure ! What may this flying steed's name be ? 

Belinda. — His name's Garibaldi, and he's a regular 
trump. 

Gentleman No. 2. — Because he appropriates all the 
tricks, hey ? 

Belinda. — He doesn't have any tricks. 

Gentleman. — You are too sharp for me. You must 
be in the habit of taking blades to lunch. 

Belinda. — Nurse always tells us to be careful of the 
olades. 

Gentleman No. 3. — Oh, oh ! now yon are cutting. 

Gentleman No. 4. — An original, en Veritas. Mamma 
certainly owns no more such prodigies ? 

Belinda. — There's Luc}^ she's my twin sister, but 
she isn't like me. Mercy, she's meeker than Moses, 
and not up to snuff, by any means. 

Gentleman No. 4. — Oh ! She would only do on a 
pinch, then. 

Belinda. — Then there's Nattie. But he's one of the 
small fry, and always in a pickle. 

Gentleman. — Let us hope he will be preserved to a 
green old age. 

Belinda. — And there's the baby. He doesn't do any 
thing but scream like a house a-fire. 

Gentleman No. 4. — He must have a tongue like a 
roaring flame. 

Gentleman No. 1. — Little Nimrod, do you know that 
I am going to carry you over to my place, bag and 
baggage, and keep you ever so long. 

Belinda. — I'd like to come, but I'm going somewhere 
else. 

Gentleman. — But I know you'll have a better time 
at my house. The gold fish talk, and the birds stand 
still, and wait for you to put salt on their tails. 

Belinda. — Pooh ! that's gammon. 

Gentleman. — Come, and see if it is. You are never 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 43 

sure of any thing till you've tried it. Then 1 have a 
very nice coachman that will drive you everywhere. 

Belinda. — Grandmamma Champney's coachman 
drives a four in hand, and I'm going there. 

Gentleman. — Are there no terms you will listen to? 

Belinda. — No. I know which side my bread is but- 
tered, I guess ; and I shall go to grandmamma's. 

Gentleman.— You are incorrigible, I see. I shall 
have to shake hands and leave you. Good-by, then. 
\_Exit ladies and gentlemen.'] 

Mrs. Champney [hurrying up to Belinda']. — Oh, here 
you are. I've been looking for you. Your grandmam- 
ma wants to take 3'ou home with her, now, right away. 

Belinda. — Oh goody ! 

Mrs. Champney. — Now, don't be hoydenish ; be lady- 
like and reserved, for she is very precise. Come, she is 
looking this wa}' [leads her up to Grandmamma Champ- 
ney]. This is Belinda, madam. I trust you will find 
her to be all you expected. 

Grandmamma [sittiny very straight and speaking 
stiffly]. — That is settled beyond a doubt. 

Mrs. Champney. — She is said to greatly resemble 
the Champneys. 

Grandmamma [putting on her spectacles and taking a 
scrutinizing look]. — Yes, yes, I see a Champney nose 
and mouth, Champney eyes, the true bronze tint in the 
hair, the proper carriage to the head ; all that I But 
the raind — the inward features ; think you they could 
stand the Champney test? 

Mrs. Champney [nervously]. — Why, yes, I — I think 
so. 

Grandmamma. — Belinda, when you came mto the 
room — and I have watched you from the moment 
you entered — my heart warmed toward you, for you 
looked a true descendant of our race. The " handsome 
Champneys" has always been a name well applied to 
us ; but handsome is as handsome does, too, in my eyes ; 
and if the graces of the mind correspond not to those 
of the body, of what avail is beauty that is only skin 
deep ? [To Mrs. Chamimey.] And now I will trouble 
you to send for Luc3^ I have nothing further to do 
with Belinda. [Belinda hides her face in her handsJ\ 



44 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. Champney. — But — why — I thought it was Be- 
linda 3'ou wanted. She is your namesake. I hope she 
has not offended you. 

Grandmamma. — She is entirely out of the question, 
after my being an involuntary listener to her conversa- 
tion a few moments ago. I might excuse such language 
in a stable boy ; in a Champne}', never. 

Mrs. Champney. — Can you not forgive her childish 
folly for this once ? I am sure she will not offend again. 
\_Lucy enters.'] 

Grandmamma. — Lucy, come to me. I can tell by 
your blushes that you are as modest as the wee wood- 
land flower, whose color deepens in your eyes ; and if 
mamma will spare you to me and the old hall, we may 
soon look to be warmed into life and light by the sun- 
shine of your presence. 

Mrs. Champney. — But, madam — 

Grandmamma Champney. — Say no more, but allow 
me to choose Lucy for my protege and companion, for 
I feel sure she is worthy of all love and trust. I never 
should feel .safe with one, who knows " which side hei 
bread is buttered," who " snap-dragons" the governess, 
and goes "2.40" on a "trump" of a pony. I much 
prefer Lucy, even though she is "meeker than Moses," 
and indeed this I consider a great recommendation— 
" that she's not up to snuff," by any means. 



THE EFFECTS OF WAR. 

CHARACTERS. 

Henrv, a comrade. 



Mother. 

Son. 

Blanche, 



Mother, engaged in sewing. 



Scene I. — Enter son dressed in uniform, the mother 
looks up in surprise. 

Mother. — My son, what does this mean ? 

Son. — It means, mother, that your son comes to you 
tbiis moi-nijttg, s^ soldiei'. O'U- ooujutry, ray cpuntvy is \v. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 44 

danger I For three long j^ears this bloody war has been 
upon us, and now there is another call for men. My 
country calls her sons to her aid ; can I refuse ? She 
calls them to rescue her from the grasp of the demon 
who has hor already by the throat ; can I hesitate ? Can 
I stand calmly by and hear her cries, and not raise an 
arm in her defence ? No, never ! 

M. — My son, I fear you do not realize what you do ; 
you are not fit for a soldier ; you can not endure the 
fatigue of the march, and the exposure and privations 
of the camp; your constitution will soon be broken 
down, and you will sink into a premature grave. 

Son. — Mother, would you withhold your offering from 
the altar of your country ? Think of the Spartan mother 
who could send away her son to fight for his country, 
saying, as she gave him his shield, " Return to me with 
this shield or upon it," — and would j^ou be less patriotic? 
No, mother ; this strong right arm shall never be with- 
held, when my country calls for me to raise it in 
her defence. I should despise myself for ever were 
I to falter because there is personal danger to be 
encountered. 

M. — But think, my son, you are leaving home and 
friends ; friends whose fondest hopes are centered in 
you, and who have endeavored to make your home a 
place of sunshine and joy to you ; you are leaving them 
for the battle-field, there perhaps to throw your life 
away [wiping a tear]. 

S. — No, -mother ; 'twill not be thrown Away ; rather 
given in defence of freedom, and for you and future 
generations. Seek not to hinder me; my decision is 
made ; my name is on the roll, and I have no desire to 
withdraw it ; much as I love friends and home, with all 
its hallowed associations, this sacrifice is not too great 
to make for my country. 

M. — Well, go, my son, and God be with you, and keep 
fou amid the dangers and temptations of a soldier's life, 
ihd hasten the time when you shall return in safety to 
your home. 

S. — Amen I and now good-by. [They embrace each 
Uher, the mother weeping. Exit son. Curtain falls.'] 



46 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Scene 2. — Charles and Blanche are seated together, 
her hand clasped in his. 

Charles. — Dearest Blanche, I must leave yoa, and 
I know you will not urge me to stay when my country 
calls me. 

Blanche. — No, Charles ; I will not ask you to stay, 
hard as it is to part. I feel that I would be doing you 
injustice, as well as disgracing myself. It is our lot 
to part, and we must submit to it without murmuring. 

C. — But ere we part, accept this trifle [producing a 
ring and placing it on her finger'], as a token of my 
love, with the request that it will remind you of the 
absent one. 

B. — And allow me this privilege also [taking from 
her own hand a 7'ing and placing it on his], with the re- 
quest that you will wear it for my sake. 

C. — Your request shall be granted ; its sight shall 
ever call to mind the happy hours spent here ; I will 
part with it but with life, and on the field of battle its 
sight shall nerve me to greater courage : or, perhaps, 
when lying on the field of death, its sight shall bring to 
me thoughts of the loved one at home. 

B. — But we will hope to meet again ; yet should we 
not, we will hope to meet above. 

C — And now good-by, I must go [they embrace each 
other]. God bless you ! 

B. — And you also, and return you sa"^e. [She accom- 
panies him to the door, ivhere they pan, and returning, 
she covers her face with her handkerchief, and sinks 
into a chair. Curtain falls]. 

Scene 3. — A tent, with a musket standing at the door. 
CharlCi, lies within, dying of a wound received in one 
of the last battles of the war. Henry, a comrade, 
bending over him. 

Henry. — Charles, is there any thing I can do for 
you ? 

Charles. — Water, give me a drink of water [he 
gives him a drink from his canteen], and now, if you 
have time, listen to me. You know my condition ; take 
this Bible, and should you live to go home, as I hope 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 47 

you will, give it to my mother, and tell her tha„ i have 
studied its precepts, and endeavored to obey its com- 
mands ; tell her that I have done my duty as a soldier, 
and kept my honor unstained, and I will meet ner in > 
better land. Take this ring, and give it to Biancne ; 
tell her that I have worn it, and as I told her, i part 
with it but with life : tell her that he who sent it never 
forgot her, even in his dying hour : tell her, too, not to 
regret the sacrifice she has made for her country, but 
rather to feel proud that she gave her lover in defence 
of her country's cause. But my strength is failing. 
Good-by. [Pressing his hand. Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 4. — Curtain rises. Mother and Blanche are 
seated together. 

Mother. — I wonder why Charles does not write, we 
have not heard from him for several weeks. 

Blanche. — As it is nearly time for the mail to arrive, 
I will go to the office ; perhaps we shall get a letter from 
him [risi7ig. Enter a soldier']. 

Soldier [bowing]. — Mrs. Gray, I believe ? 

Mother. — The same, sir. 

S. [presenting the Bible]. — I bring you 

M. [springing forioard and catching the book]. — My 
son ! my son ! you bring me news of him, oh, tell me — 
tell me all ! 

S. [ivith emotion]. — He bade me give it to you, and 
tell you that he had done his duty as a soldier, and 
died as a soldier should. 

M. — Oh my son! [pressi^ig the Bible to her heart, aid 
looking up]. God's will be done. 

S. — This, he directed me to give to you [presenting 
the ring to Blanche], and tell you that he never forgot 
you, even in his dying hour. [She takes it, and covering 
her face with her handkerchief leaves the room.] 

Peace [advancing]. — Oh war, how dread are thy 
afflictions ! Oh, Columbia, how great the sacrifice which 
these thy daughters have made for thee ! Comfort thee, 
oh mother ; thy son rests among those blessed spirits, 
who nobly cemented our Nation with their blood. Thy 



4:8 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

sacrifice was great, and thy reward of a nation's grati« 
tude, will also be great. Comfort thee ! Thy son per- 
ished as a martyr in a glorious cause, and his menx^r'* 
will ever be cherished by a grateful people. 

Sleep on ! brave ones who nobly fell 

Upon the goiy battle-field ; 
Your shroud, naught but a soldier's cloak, 

Your bier, your country's glorious shield? 

Sleep on ! your memory e'er is blest 

By those you nobly died to save ; 
And many a tributary tear 

Shall fall upon the soldier's grave. 

[Curtain fallM.^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE TWO INTERPRETERS OF DREAMS, 

CHAKACTERS. 

Grandma, arrayed in ancient costume, with spectacles, snuff- 
box, and knitting. 
Girls. — Olive, Sarah, Mart, and Maggie. 
Young ladies. — Alma and Cousin Emma. 



Grandma sits quietly knitting, when the girls rush in, 

asking together : 

Grandma, grandma, do you believe in dreams ? 

Grandma. — B'leve in dreams, child ! why of curse I 
dew. I b'leve they're most as trew as Scripter. La, 
me [snuffing vigorously'] ! I've studied my dream-book 
most every mornin' for sixty yers! B'leve in dreams ? 
I've had so many come round all true, that I'll never 
doubt them. Why ! the night before my poor husband 
died [_sohhing'], I dreamed that I saw him, so cold and 
lifeless, and in the mornin' sure enough he was in a 
ragin' fever. We sent right off for Dr. Slimpton ; he 
lived in the village of Middleburg. [Stops crying and 
knits.'] He and Jeremiah used to be great friends ; they 
never had a hard word but once, and that was when 
Jeremiah thought Simeon Slimpton was paying 'tention 
to me. Ah ! it makes me feel most young to think of 
those days ! [In her excitement grandma drops a stitch, 
tries in vain to pick it up, then goes on talking, dropping 
work.] What lots of beaux I used to hev ! Wal, I 
wern't bad-lookin' ; mj cheeks were red as yourn, Olive. 
My eyes wei'e bright ; I could see better then. Here 
Olive, deary, help your grandmother [handing her 
knitting]. And my hair [touching the powdered locks]. 
Ah ! Jeremiah used to say these raven locks were en- 
chantin'. 

Sarah. — Well ! well 1 Grandma, you were talking 
awhile ago of sending for Dr. Slimpton. Did grandpa 
get well ? 

Grandma [reprovingly]. — Get welll child? how ig- 
noi'ant you a^e to think he could get well after I dreamed 
4 



50 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 

that I No! I knew he couldn't. [Sobbing.^ And after 
they sent for the doctor, I went right up stairs to see if 
my black bombazine would do to wear to the funeral. 
There it had lain in the chest for twenty yers, and was 
as good as new, and shone like silk. ■ I got Nancy 
Maria Slimpton to fix it over for me ; she charged fifty 
cents. I think it was shameful on such an occasion. 
Oh ! poor Nancy Maria, she had lots of trouble after I 
left there ; her nephew's youngest son abused hei 
shamefull}' and well nigh killed her 

Mary. — Well, grandma, nevermind Nancy Maria, now ; 
tell us about our dreams. I dreamed of fire ; and oh, 
how the flames swelled and surged around me ! I could 
not get away, for the doors were all fastened, and the 
crowd around me was so great. 

Grandma [sighing']. — Oh, poor Mary ! you will meet 
with opposition in whatever you undertake, and 

Olive. — Oh, grandma ! I had an awful dream. I 
wandered in the woods, and savages wore pursuing me, 
and, in trying to escape, I fell into a den of lions. Oh ! 
they growled and opened their mouths, and then 1 
awoke screaming, and have hardly got over the fright 
yet! 

Grandma. — Oh, poor girl ! that you have so manj? 
enemies, for such means your dream, and all too soon 
will ^^ou be caught in the traps they have set for you, 
\_Snuffing and sneezing.'] Well, Maggie, child, did you 
dream ? 

Maggie. — Yes ! such an awful dream of my dear sol- 
dier brother Robert, that he was at home, and lay so 
still 

Grandma. — Oh ! my poor, poor child ; so young to 
bear such a sorrow! Oh, dear! [Crying and applying 
handkerchief.] I dreamed the same Avhen your grandpa 
died. Oh ! how I mourned. May be, now, Maggie, 
your brother lies in a hospital 

Maggie [wiping her eyes]. — Don't ; don't talk so, 
grandma ; you make me feel so bad ! 

Grandma. — Well, well, child, it's all true ; dreams are 
solemn things. 

Sarah — I dreamed last night of Uncle John, that he 
came home. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 51 

Grandma [^seeviing s>tartlecl, and rUes, droijping her 
ball and snuff-Jiox]. — Oh ! did you ? 

Sarah. — Yes ; and we were so glad to see him. 

Grandma. — Oh ! how strange ! for I dreamed the 
same thing, too. And it's a sure sign we'll never see 
him again. \_Sobs, and buries her face in her handfcer- 
chief/] Oh, my poor, poor boy ! I little thought this 
when you bade me good-b}^, and started for California. 
Now may be you are dying on a western prairie. Oh ! 
my poor boy I Girls, j^our old grandmother's heart is 
broken. 

Sarah. — But, grandma, may be he'll come home. 

Grandma [sternly']. — Hush ! hush, child ! Both of 
us dreamed the same. Dreams never fail. Oh, dear I 
Oh, dear ! [Departs iveeping.] 

Sarah. — There comes Alma. Alma, what makes you 
look so glad ? 

Alma. — Oh ! I had a dream. 

Sarah. — A dream ! a dream ! Do you believe in 
dreams ? 

Alma. — Yes ; I believe 

Olive. — Oh, girls ! Alma believes in dreams. Why, 
Alma, I thought you always laughed about them ! 

[All together.] Oh ! goody, goody ! I'm glad ; now 
you'll interpret our dreams. 

Maggie. — We don't like what grandma says, it makes 
us feel so bad. 

Mary. — I dreamed of fire 

Alma. — Hush ! hush girls ! you talk so fast. I com- 
menced to say, when you interrupted me, that I believed 
we dream — [Girls look disappointed, and, exclaim, Oh! 
is that all ? I''m sorry !] — and that we dream many strange 
things, and the reason is, we were thinking such 
thoughts, and they continued even after our eyes closed 
in slumber. Mary, was it strange 3'ou dreamed of fire, 
when you were reading last night of the great conflagra- 
tion in the city of Santiago, Chili ? The great waste of 
life there, and the brutality of many, enlisted your sym- 
pathies and thoughts. 

Mary. — But grandma says I will meet with opposition. 

Alma. — Perhaps you will ! but not any more likely 
because of 3^our dream. If Mary meets with opposition. 



52 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

I hope she will be strong and true, and meet it with a 
brave heart, remembering that that is what overcomes 
obstacles. 

Olive. — I fell into a den of lions ; and grandma said 
that meant I had many enemies. 

Alma. — Of course you would dream of lions, after 
reading Dr. Livingstone's travels in Africa, and his ad- 
ventures with the king of beasts. And as for ene- 
mies, if you are loving, kind and true, and do to others 
as you would have them do to you, enemies will not 
harm you, 

Maggie. — Oh, Alma ! do you believe that my brother 
is in the hospital ? I dreamed he was sick. 

Alma. — No, no, child ! You were writing to him 
before retiring, and thinking perhaps danger would 
befall him. 

Sarah. — Grandma and I both dreamed of Uncle John, 
and she went off just now in a fit of hysterics, because 
she says it is a sure sign he is dead. 

Alma. — Nonsense I Grandma is whimsical. She has 
thought and fancied so much about dreams, and that 
there was reality in them, that she makes both herself 
and others miserable. I hope you never will be so 
carried away by them, and borrow trouble about the 
future. Dreams are very pleasant, if we view them in a 
sensible light. I heard cousin Emma read something 
about them yesterday. 

Girls. — Oh, I would like to hear it ! Wont she read 
it to us ? 

Alma. — I'll go after her. [Goes and returns soon 
with cousin Emma.'] 

Emma. — Well, girls, you see Alma has really "pressed 
me into the service," so I'll not retreat, but do the best 
I can. [Reads.'] 

DREAMS. 
" Come, Winnie, and sail on. the River of Sleep, 
Where the fair Dream Islands be." 
Sleep may be likened to a broad, calm, beautiful river^ 
on which we sail at eventide, when twilight's dim, leaden 
mantle has changed to a darker hue. In our light bai'ks 
we float calmly along, without a ripple or wave to dis- 
turb us, when the toi's of the day are over. This river 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



53 



is atudded with fair and beautiful Dream Islands. Ohl 
the beaut}" with which they are adorned ! We view their 
grand and delightful scenes, flashing rivers, crystal 
lakes, flowers with rare and sweet perfume, and birds 
with gay plumage and sw-eetest songs. 

And while our bark stops there, and we revel in the 
beauty and grandeur, we forget all worldlj^ cares and 
annoyances. All with pure and holy thoughts may 
enjoy the beauty without money and without price. 
And yery thankful am I for that. For the poor forget 
their pinching poverty. The longing eyes, which so 
delight in nature's grand and beautiful scenes, but are 
debarred from them, may now feast heart and soul 
Those who are separated from friends may again meet 
and commune with them. But even to some who sail 
on the river are beauties denied. To those whose 
lives are spent in selfish idleness, base crime, or those 
who daily drink of the maddening bowl — to these, dire 
serpents sluggishly'' move the waters, and ferocious 
beasts start from the green thickets with glaring e^^es 
and opened mouth. And madl}^ trying to dispel the 
scene, the almost delirious victims of sin curse the 
River of Sleep, and even the fair Dream Islands. But 
to the good they prove a blessing. Ever flow thou on, 
peaceful river, set with emerald gems ! 

Sarah. — Alma, you said you had a dream. Tell it to 
us, and what makes you seem so hajDpy. 

Alma. — Well, Sarah, I will answer you by repeating 
a poem which I love dearly, and then we must go to our 
lessons. [She repeats ;] 



' Pleasant were my dreams last night, 
Till tlie dawn of moi'uing light ; 
All the lonely midnitfht hours 
Roamed I Dream-land's fairy bowers. 

' And the frieuds of Long Ago, 
Those I loved and cherished so, 
Looked on me with loving eyes, 
Clasped my hand in glad surprise. 

' Tender words, like holy balm. 
Filled my soul with heavenly calm ; 
fcweeter than the song of birds, 
Seemed to me thoso loving words. 



" But the joy within my heart, 
Does not with the night depart; 
Tender words my spirit thrill, 
Loving eyes look on me still. 

" I've been humming all day long. 
Snatches ot an old time song ; 
Know you why my heart islightf 
Pleasant were my dreams last night 

" Surely blessed are those, hours. 
When, like dew upon the flowers, 
Fall they on the weary, sleeping ; 
Saddest eyesfovget their wa^riHg. " 



54 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

THE rOTJR SEASONS.* 

[The curtain rises, and a little girl appears dressed in white, 
with scarf and sash of pink, a crown of small flowers on her 
head, and bouquets in her hand. She speaks : — ] 

I AM Spring. They call me beautiful Spring. My 
step is light and my voice- is glad. I love all that is 
young; 1 cheer all that is old. I call sweet flowers to 
light among the gray old rocks, and make the green 
leaves to tremble in their loveliness, among ancient ruins. 
1 bring not onl_y soft, light, fresh winds, green 
leaves, and fair flowers with me, but young birds in their 
nests, and young lambs to play in the meadows. 

Little fishes dart about in the brooks, too, and frogs 
sing in the marshes. I come like Hope to the people. 
They hear my voice, and lay the seed in the ground, and 
trust it to the dew and the sunshine, the rain and the 
smile of God. 

I am a miracle worker on earth, and a type of the 
fadeless land toward which mortals journey. 

The prisoner in a gloomy dungeon far away, feels 
my breath on his brow, and thinks of the rolling floods, 
and the glad joy in that mountain home in v/hose defence 
his comrades fell, for whose sake he can smile at impris- 
onment and death. In my smile he hopes. 

Now he says, " It is Spring time, and my brothers 
and friends will gird on their armor and come and liber- 
ate me." 

The Father above, who guides the young birds back 
to their last year's haunts, careth too for me, and it is 
Spring. Lights and shadows fell on the way of the red 
breast as he journeyed northward, but he hoped and 
trusted ; he was true as Spring, and Spring is as true as 
God. 

I am crowned with flowers; I am laden with them ; 
I am joyous and fair ; I am a being of light, and melody, 
and fragrance. 

I am the beautifier of Nature, the beloved of man, 
a visible promise of Paradise. In Heaven only ma}^ I 
tarry. 

* This Dialogue was written in 1863. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 55 

Here I come, but to depart. I must away, away 
to make room for my lovely sister, the Summer; but 
forget me not. I am Spring, beautiful Spi'ing. 
[Scattering the flowers, she departs.] 

[Enter Summer — A large girl in a pink dress and scarf, and 
sash of green, and a broad-brimmed straw liat wreathed with 
loses. On her left arm a small sheaf of wheat, in her right 
hand a sickle. She says :— ] 

I am Summer, gay, and bright, and gleesome. 
" Laughing Summer" I am called. I have the brightest 
sunshine, the thickest canopy of leaves, the stillest, 
warmest air about me, and the bluest sky above. 

I come to the lands of the North like a dream of 
tropical beauty. I call the dwellers of the city out into 
the forest haunts. I fill their souls with my glory. 
Young maidens are ever garlanded with flowers in my 
reign ; and I hear the children's laughter ringing out on 
the air that is so sweet, wandering over orchards bright 
with clover blossoms, and meadows sweet with new 
mown hay. 

Happy Summer I am called. I fill the children's 
Jiands with strawberries. I load the trees with cherries 
for shouting boys to shake down into the aprons of 
bright-eyed little girls. 

In my smile the apples grow rosy and mellow, and 
the farmer's face is glad as he gathers the golden 
pears. It is when my step is abroad in the land that 
the poet weaves his brightest vision, and the patriot's 
devotion is truest. 

It is then he looks abroad and says: "My native 
land! my own, my native land!" and "Where's the 
coward that would not strike for such a land ?" I am 
the friend of the patriot soldier. The youth, on the 
lonely rounds of his picket duty, blesses God for me. 
Looking up to m}^ starry' sky, he thinks how, in his far- 
off home, the eyes of dear ones rest on those same bright 
sentinels of heaven, the while they pi'ay for him. 

Yes, I am Summer, the radiant and happy, even 
though there is war in the land ; for* Peace will come 
over the land at last like Summer and the Sun of Peace 



56 SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

shall shine as my sun at noonday. The eagle shall 
spread his wing on the mountain unfearing ; the earth 
shall be glad and rejoice ; the reapers shall be many, and 
the harvest plenteous. This is the voice of the passing- 
Summer. 

[Autumn — A young girl in dress of bufi" or corn color, with 
blue sash and scarf, and crowned with wheat or j^utumn 
leaves and grasses ; in her hand a horn of plenty.] 

I am Autumn. Spring promised, and Summer 
brought, but I finish. 

They call me mellow Autumn, and jolly Autumn, 
and I, too, am loved. When barns and cellars are full, 
all heai'ts are happy. The blossoms of Spring were fair, 
and the roses of Summer bright ; but my wild flowers 
are of gold and purple, and scarlet, royal, and radiant. 

I have strewn the wood paths with dry leaves, I 
have warned the dear birds that it was time to be gone 
southward ; but the chatter of squirrels over their hoarded 
treasures is heard in the woods, and the voices that go 
up from the streams are pleasant, the grassliopper's song 
is ended, and the bee hums near its hive. 

The girls have gathered the grapes, and the boj's 
the nuts ; the plough is tracing the furrows over the 
brown fields, and the farmer's table is graced by bread 
from his land, and honey from his hives. 

And my winds are wild and stirring in their tones : 

"They have been across red fields of war, 

Where shivered helmets He, 
They have brought me thence the thrilling note, 

Of a clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, 

A peal of stormy drums — 
All these are in their music met. 

As when a leader comes." 

Oh! what is like rich, ripe, mellow Autumn, in a 
land that God has blessed among the nations— a land 
whose starry banner shall float over it, when its. people 
shall indeed be free ? 

This, oh land of beauty, is the prophecy of Au 
tumn 1 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 57 

[Winter — A boy representing an old man arrayed in an 
ample black cloak, trimmed with white fur — with gray hair 
streaming from beneath a heavy fur cap — a pair of skates 
swung from his shoulder.] 

I am Winter. I brought the snow, and the boys 
shouted hurrah ; the girls clapped their hands rosy with 
the cold, and said : " Ha ! ha I" I traced the pictures 
of wondrous beauty on the window panes, and bridged 
rivers, and hung pearls on the pine trees. 

I set my winds to shouting, and quickened ever}' 
body's steps. My snow flakes whirl, my snow birds 
flutter by, and my clouds hurry. 

It is I that have the Christmas tree to decorate 
my halls, and the New Year's fire to blaze on my hearth ; 
and then the little cricket chirrups there, while the 
turkey roasts, and the apples and nuts are heaped in the 
basket. 

Oh 1 the boys get their skates now, and hurrah for 
the sport ! And the girls may come along too, and 
listen to the sleigh bells ! what fun ! hui-rah ! To be 
upset in the snow-drifts, ah, that is merry ! 

Yes, I am Winter, and most welcome to all, no 
thanks to fair young Spring, bright Summer, and mild 
Autumn to be cheerful ; but fur Winter, an old man to 
come with such grace and pleasantry, that all are glad 
to see him — that is fine! Winter, Winter, happy is 
the country that rejoices in thee ! 

The merriest games are played in my long even- 
ings, the sweetest songs are sung then, and the best 
stories told. 

Beautiful are the shadows that the fire-light casts 
on the wall, and " pleasant and mournful to the soul the 
memory of jo^^s that are past!" 

I bade you rejoice, but I bid you also to mourn — 
to mourn for those whose deaths have made hearths safe 
and holy — those peasant men who became warriors at 
their country's call. 

Let the records of their bravery be eternal! While 
ever your homes are dear, praise ye the men who 
perished to preserve them, and let Winter beseech you 
to care for the widow and orphf.n. 



58 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Under the cold light of my stars, their homes 
seem doubly desolate, and my winds to them take the 
sound of bitter wailing. 

I am Winter, and 'tis my voice that asks you to 
care for the poor, who have offered up their beloved on 
the altar of sacrifice, and while you pray " God be 
merciful!" be ye merciful, give, give — it is la3dng up 
treasures in heaven. 

Winter is the friend of Freedom. Amid the snow}^ 
Alps, the undaunted Tell, with his friends, defied tlie 
tyrant ; and at Valley Forge the patriotism and the 
heroism of Washington and his army were sublime and 
God-like. Shall the descendants of such fathers hold 
Liberty less dear ? 

[Spring, Summer, and Autumn appear again, and clasping 
hands with winter, form a circle. Winter proceeds : — 
" It is your banner in the skies, 

Through each dark cloud that breaks, 
And mantles with triumphant dyes, 
Your thousand hills and lakes." 

This* is the voice of the whole year. 

[The curtain falls.'] 



SCHOOL AFFAIRS IN RIVERHEAD DISTRICT. 

CHARACTERS. 
Squire Wiseman, "i 

Job Turner, and > School Committee. 
Hans Schweitzer, j 

Joseph Harris, an accomplished gentleman and Teacher. 
Sam Price the preference of the Board. 
Pupils. 



Scene L — Harris and his Scholars. 

Har. — My dear pupils ! I desire to say a few wo -de 
tc you, before I dismiss the school to-night. You have 
all done well to-day, and I love to encourage you. Do 
you not all feel better after doing a good day's work ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 59 

Pupils. — Yes, indeed. 

Har. — I know 3^ou do. I knew just what you were 
going to say. Work does us a great deal of good. It 
makes the blood course freely in our veins. It makes 
our cheeks glow. It is better than medicine, because it 
prevents many ills. It does us good to think about 
good deeds. And I know yon all feel better, to-night, 
because you have a good da3^'s work to think about. Don't 
you all love to study and learn hard lessons ? If any 
boy or girl, in my school, does not like to spend his 
time well, does not feel better when he has worked hard, 
n,nd has done something, let him raise his hand. \_One 
hand is rained.'] 

Har. — Well, Charlie, speak out. Do you not feel 
uetter when at work? 

Charlie. — Not a bit of that. I feel best when I am 
wabblin about. 

Har. — Come here, Charlie. I like to see you honest. 
I love honest boys. Always speak the truth. I like to 
see you all active. Charlie doesn't understand me. He 
thinks I am commending boys who are alwaj^s still. I 
do not mean that. Industry requires activity. Indus- 
trious students, however, are industrious thinkers. A.nd 
thought is silent. [^Another hand is raised.] What do 
you want to say, James ? 

James. — Do thoughts always keep still ? 

Har. — Not always. The}^ often seek expression. 
But much talking indicates little thought. We ought 
to express our thoughts ; but look out for proper occa- 
sions. You may recollect the proverb which says: 
" Still waters run deep." To turn upon another subject : 
I am sorry to think, scholars, that we are so perplexed 
about classing and teaching you properl}''. Our books 
have become so various, that I find it very difficult to 
teach as I would like. I do not find as much time for 
each class, as I could if our system of books, studies, 
etc., were improved. But let us be patient. I intend 
to see Squire Wiseman, the most prominent and influen- 
tial man of the school board, and see what can be done 
to better our condition. In the meantime, let us work 
hard to get our lessons well We will close school bj 
repealing a few of James Montgomery's questions ant* 



60 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

answers [^School divides — one class on the right and 
one on the left of the stage.^ 

ist class. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 

2d class. My Maker called me and I came. 

1st class. Oh, Sun ! what makes thy beams so bright ! 

2d class. The word that said, " Let there be light." 

1st class. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 

2d class. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 

Isi class. Flowers, wherefore do you bloom ? 

2d class. We strew thy pathway to the tomb. 

1st class. Dews of the morning, wherefore are ye given? 

2d class. To shine on earth, then rise to heaven. 

1st class. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 

2d class. I travel to eternity, 

1st class. Oh, Life ! what is thy breath ? 

2d class. A vapor lost in death. 

1st class. Oh, death ! how ends thy strife ? 

2d class. In everlasting life. 

Har. — School is dismissed. \^AU pass out.'] 

Scene 2. — Mr. Harris, Squire Wiseman and Job Turner. 

Har. — How are j^ou, my good friend ? I have been 
desirous of meeting you for some time. I have much 
which concerns the common interests of our school and 
district to converse about. I fear we shall not have 
time for all. 

Sq. W. — Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter. I am 
not very well versed in these school affairs, you 
know. And a conversation would not be of much ser- 
vice to 3"ou, it may be. However, I shall be happy to 
meet you, at the office, some evening. 

Har. — That will not do. I have little time for an3'' 
thing merely promotive of my own pleasure. I must 
improve a moment, at present, I think, hoping that j-ou 
will pardon the impropriety there may be in urging it. 
I have been thinking of trying to remove a difficulty 
under which we labor respecting books. 

Sq. W. — What difficulties do the books make ! 1 
thought they were made to remove difficulties. 

Har. — So they were. Yet some do their work but 
poorly enough — making more than they remove. 

Sq. W. — How is that ? How is that ? Are you get- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 

tiixg so wise as to know more about books than the 
book-makers ? 

Har. — I can tell, I think, when a book serves a good 
purpose as a text, and when not. 

Sq. W. — Well ! well ! How are you going to mend 
flings ? The law will not allow you to interfere with 
our books. 

Har. — 'Tis true ; and most properly is such inter- 
ference, on my part, prohibited. But I wish to influence 
you, and those associated with you, as a school com- 
mittee, to the fulfillment of your duty respecting this 
matter. I would like to see the very wise provisions 
of our law enforced, respecting a uniformity at least. 

Sq. W. — I never could see much force in the statute 
to which you refer. 

Har. — Indeed ! Perhaps j'^ou have not reflected upon 
its importance. To me it is one of the most essential 
and important features of the code. 

Sq. W. — I generally look at the importance of things, 
sir. I should not be qualified to act as umpire for 
others, were it not the case. 

Har. — Let me then call your attention to the great 
want of classification, existing in our school, when I 
first took charge of it — a want, too, which still exists, 
and which is occasioned, solely, on account of the 
variety of text-books used by pupils of the same age 
and advancement. 

Sq. W. — Well, I can't see how it matters about the 
book, if pupils be well and correctly taught. 

Har. — True ! but how can they be well taught in such 
a case as mine ? 

Sq. W. — Hem ! Well, if people have books, they 
will hardly trouble themselves to get more. 

Har. — But they should. And, by the law, they are 
bound to, if prescribed by the right authority. The 
convenience of one should be sacrificed to the necessi- 
ties of the many. 

Sq. W. — Oh, well ! I fear you can't introduce these 
new-fangled notions among us. We are a steady, 
straight-forward people. Don't go in for change. 

Har.. — Except pocket change I I do not desire to in- 
troduce such notions as those, of which you speak. 



62 SCHOOLDA^' DIALOGUES. 

Tbe law has anticipated me in the premises, looking, as 
it did, to the pressing demands of the youth of our 
schools. I would like to see its wise provisions executed. 
J, therefore, appeal to you as the authorized agents of 
the law-making power to attend to our wants. I should 
be glad to give any advice that would assist you in the 
adjustment of our difficulties. 

[^Enter Job Turner, another member of the school 
committee.'] 

Tub. — What advice is that ar you propose to give 
to us ? I heard you had gone over to stir up a fuss, 
and I thought I'd come over and see tew it. We don't 
want men around here who can't attend to their own 
business. 

Har. — I am surprised, Mr. Turner. All that I have 
done, I have done with honest intentions, I am not 
aware that I have overstepped the bounds of my duty. 

TuR. — Is it your business to run down our school- 
house ? 

Har. — It is my duty to call attention to what I be- 
lieve to be for the good of the school. 

Sq. W. — Why, Mr. Harris, what is the matter with 
our house ? We all got our education in it. 

Har. — It may be. But it is now grossly dilapidated, 

TuR. — Now i am a new hand in this business. But 
I know such things as these will make trouble. 

Har. — I must go. I hope we shall all do our best 
in our respective capacities to meet all the wants of 
those under our care. \_Exit Harris.] 

Sq. W. — Now, Job, this is insulting. We can't stand 
this. I am not penurious— but — but let us quietly get 
rid of this man. I can, perhaps, induce him to resign. 

TuR. — Go it, squire. I am in. I'll be bound if we 
wont show him that he can't rule all Riverhead. Aftfr 
-we git him out, we'll have an examination and employ 
aceordin' to our own notions. 

Scene 3. — Squire Wiseman, J. Turner, H. Shweitzer, 
and Samuel Price. Examination day. 

Sq. W. — I suppose you heard of the resignation of 
Mr, Harris as teaclier in our school. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 63 

TuR. — I did that. It takes jon, squire, for them 
tliiogs. I heard to-day there was an examination, and 
I thought I'd come up in time to get posted. 

Sq. W.— Well, I don't like to talk about myself. But 
somehow or other, I always thought I could manage 
all these delicate affairs with some success. Eh ? 

TuR. — Exactly, squire. And I must say I felt kinder 
proud to be elected school committee with you. You 
see, I knew that affairs would go on swimmingly, as 
long as you manage them. [^Squire struts about with 
importance.'] 

Sq. W.— Yes— Yes. Wall, I hope they will. 

TuR. — Oh ! I know they will. Don't talk to me, when 
the squire is in for any thing. It's all right. I need to 
learn. 

Sq. W. — All right, neighbor. We ought to move 
carefully in these matters. 

TuR. — Yes, I reckon we had. Look what everlastin' 
musses are kicked up sometimes, because things aint 
arranged as they orto be. 

Sq. W. — So, so. The time for the examination has 
nearly arrived. Let me tell you one thing, Job. Let 
us all work together. Our friend, Schweitzer, who is 
one of the committee, as you are aware, is very strong 
in his opinions, sometimes. And, under such circum- 
stances, it will be better to sacrifice our own notions, 
you know, in order to preserve harmony. 

TuR. — Well, I reckon so, too. But there are some 
pints about teachin' that I allow to know a heap about, 
and I'd like to have my say, you know. 

Sq. W. — Oh, certainl}^ ! We all have that privilege. 
\_Enter Schweitzer.'] 

ScHW. — Goot afternoon. Yot for ye talkin' so much ? 
Ish it not time for de examination ? 

TuR. — Don't get into a flurry now. We're goin' to 
sarve the public now. We must look 

ScHW. — Yot for you look so long ? You never do de 
vork in dis vay. I must go home in one hour to sow 
my turnips. So hurry on. 

Sq. W. — As soon as our friends, the teachers, come, 
we will proceed. 

ScHW. — Yell, den. Here comes a poor tivil of a 



64 SCHOOLBAY DIALOGUES. 

schoolmaster, I know. Ax him a few quibbles, and if 
he can't answer noting, praps he can teach the young 
uns to spell. \_Enter Sam Price, applicant for a 
school.'] 

Sq. W. — Take a seat, sir. [ Teacher gawks about, and 
finally sits down with his hat on.] 

TuR. — Well, squire, do you know this man ? I reckon 
he is arter a school. 

Sq. W. — I suppose so. Friend, did you see our 
notice ? 

Price. — Yas, I did. I thought I'd come up. 

ScHW. — Yot for you come up ? Can you teach 
school ? 

TuR. — Hold on, now. We are goin' into a regular ex- 
amination in a minnit. All these things '11 come out 
then. I am goin' in for first-rate disqualifications. 

ScHW. — Yell, den, go to vork. I no go in for so much 
zamination, or vot you call him. 

TuR. — Come, Squire, this is your business. [Squire 
looks wise and proceeds.] 

Sq. W. — What is your name ? 

Price. — Samuel Price, sir. 

ScHW — Who cares for de name ? 'Tis de teacher we 
want. 

Sq. W. — What is the place of your nativity ? 

Price. — What is it, sir ? 

TuR. — Where did you live when you was born? he 
says. 

Price. — I don't remember. I guess 'twan't far off, 

Sq. W. — Where were you educated ? 

Price. — I don't jest understand you. 

ScHW. — Yare did you larn noting ? he says. 

Price. — I larnt some at school — but more sence I got 
out on't. 

TuR. — Have you got any more sense than you used 
to have ? 

Price. — I saved a little change in teachin' down 
country. 

Sq. W. — Then you have had some experience ? 

Price. — Oh, yas 1 

Sq. W. — Did you please the people ? 

Price. — I don't know. Spect I did. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 65 

Sq. W. — Will you read some for us ? Here is a book. 
\^Ileads awkwardly hut very loud. Job Turner gets per- 
fectly astonished at the fine elocution.'] 

TuR. — Good gracious, mister ! Where did you larn 
to read like that ? It beats everj^ thing I ever dreamed 
of. I reckon you can teach some, can't ye ? You see, 
we all go in for the very best kind o' larnin' about here 
— cipherin', spellin', and the like. That sounds more 
like real edication than any thing I've listened to in a 
long time. Excuse me, squire ; really I didn't mean to 
disturb you. 

Sq. W. — What's grammar ? 

Price. — Grammar is the way things is done — perticu- 
lex'ly in the matter of speakin', talkin', riten', etc. 

Sq. W. — How is it divided ? 

Price. — Among the scholars accordin' to their ages. 

Sq. W. — What is a noun ? 

Price. — Any thing you can hear, feel or taste. 

ScHW. — Yes, and schmell, too, I b'leve. 

Sq. W.— What is a verb ? 

Price. — A verb is what bees, doos, suffers, ax, and 
passes. 

Sq. W. — What verbs are transitive ? 

Price. — Some verbs is transitive, and some isn't. 

Sq. W. — Will you do some geometry for us? — any 
thing you please. 

Price. — Oh, yas. The four sides of an icicle triangle 
is about equal to three right angles; and a round 
circle aint got no end. 

Sq. W. — Well, that will do, unless the other gentle- 
men have questions to ask. 

ScHW. — Oh, no, it ish goot — betters as I have heard in 
a long time. 

TuR. — We have heard enough to satisfy us, I reckon. 

Sq. W. — Will you please to retire ! [Price passes 
out.] 

Sq. W. — Well, what do you think ? I don't exactly 
like the appearance of the man. 

ScHw. — He looks well enough. 'Tis te teacher we 
want. 

Sq. W. — But the address of a man has a great inllu' 
ence upon pupils. 
5 



^6 SCHOOLDAY t>TALOGUfiS. 

TuR. — fie's sniai^t, though; aint he, squire? 

Sq. W.— Yes, rather apt, though his answers were not 
all correct. Still — we — have been pajang rather too 
high. If this man will teach for a reasonable salary 1 
am willing to employ him — say ten dollars a month. 

ScHW. — I go for ten dollars a raont, too. 'Tis pig 
biice I know. But the poor tivil must live. 

TuR. — I am willin' to agree to what's fair in his case. 
Ten dollars is above my mark, some two dollars. But 
I see he is a goin' to do up the business right, and I am 
willin' to agree to the price. 

Sq. W. — Inform him, Mr Turner, of his appointment, 
and if he accepts, he can commence immediately. 

ScHW. — Squire, you see dat dis deacher puts in de 
whole time. We no w^ants to lose money on dis pargain, 
nohow. \_Exit all.'] 

Scene 4. — Sam Price in school. Piqnls talking loud 
and noisy. 

Price. — Silence ! ! I D'j-e hear that ? Set down ! I 
Take off your hats ! ! Ef ye don't be still now, I'll 

use that hickory to your hearts' content, ye young 

Class in jogerph3'-, come up. [Pupils come shuffling and 
crowding.'] Where do you live ? 

Class. — At home. 

Tea. — Right ; but in what town ? I meant. 

Cl. — Don't know. 

Tea. — Riverhead. 

Cl. — Riverhead. Riverhead. Riverhead. 

Tea. — What's the shape of the earth ? 

Cl. — Of a punkin shape. 

Tea.— What motion has it ? 

Cl. — It goes on an axle-tree, and has a motion biggei 
yet. 

Tea. — What town in the Great Desert ? 

Cl. — Eoypt. 

Tea.— What State in New York ? 

Cl. — Varmount. 

Tea. — Class dismissed. 

Pupils. — May I go out ? Please, may I go out ? Master, 
let me go out ? Tom's piuchin'. Master, may I tell you 
on Jim? He's ben doin' somethin', etc. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 67 

Tea. — Yes, j^es. All go out. [All r-un — two or three 
fall down. Teacher rings a bell repeatedly, hut no 
scholars come in. Soliloquizes.'} Plague on the var- 
mints. I'll lick 'em. I wonder if I was born to teaclj 
school, any how? That's what they all say, But 1 
don't believe it, jest. Here I am, and nobody to listen 

to my valuable instructions. I'll go and resign . 

No I wont either. Dad and mam '11 laugh too much to 
see me comin' hum now. I give fust, best kind o' satis- 
faction among the people. They all say I beat the 
other teacher — Harris — all to nothin', They had to turn 
him out. He kicked up the greatest fuss about this old 
house, books, and other foolish things, ever I heerd tell 
on. I'm thinking ef he warnt about right, tew. We have 
got the scurviest old house in creation, I re».kon. But 
a feller can get on in these ere parts, ef he only has the 
larnin'. That's what puts me through. I know how 
it goes by experience. But if I could only make these 
varmints toe the scratch, I'd go it slick as ile. Onl}'^ 
keep dark about matters furrin to real teachin', and a 
feller can become popular in these diggins — just as easy 
— That's so IBiyigs.} Confound the iing wis. I wish 
the old Harry had 'em, and I was in Hardscrabhle agin 
'long with the old folks. Wouldn't I get drunk on 
apples and cider, and go to see Sally, eh ? Wouldn't I 
be up to that ? Oh, yes ! Thar's them boys goin' into 
that orchard. [Takes his hat and runs hack and forth.'] 
I'll haze 'em. [Runs hack for his whip.] I'll lick 'em. 
Dogs and all mustard ! I'll bring 'em up and see if 
they'll go away agin. Ef I don't lam 'em 1 [Leams.'} 

NOVEL READING. 

■ CHARACTERS. 
Lena Grey. Her brother. 
Frank Grky. 
Edgar Ramon. 



Edgar. — Will you please tell me what book you are 
reading, Lena ? I have been regarding your countenance 
for sometime, and by its ever varying expression I 
judge you are much interested. 



68 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 

Lena. — I am interested ; it is tbe most fascinating 
story I ever read. 

Edgar. — Will you please tell me the character of the 
book ? I can not consider it one that requires much 
profound stud}^ ; you turn the leaves too rapidly. 

Frank. — Her- "glances are quick and comprehensive ; 
a very few convey to her mind all the information she 
desires. 

Lena. — The book is a novel, I suppose; for it contains 
the usual amount of love, jealous}^ sentiment, and crime ; 
but do you think it is wrong to spend a little time oc- 
casionally in reading merely for amusement ? 

Edgar. — That depends upon the kind of amusement 
the book affords. We would not pelt ourselves with 
stones for the sake of obtaining exercise ; nor should 
we permit the mind to indulge in recreation equally 
injurious. 

Lena. — Most surely you would not imply that be- 
cause I indulge in novel reading, I shall render myself 
less capable of performing the trivial duties of dail}^ life. 
With the greatest economy of time I can obtain only a 
v'ew hours each da}^ for mental culture ; and should I 
spend even the greater part of that in novel reading, 
what evil could result from it? 

Edgar. — In the words of the learned Daniel Wise, 
let me reply, " Obscured, feeble intellect, a weakened 
memory, an extravagant and fanciful imagination, be- 
numbed sensibilities, a demoralized conscience, and a 
corrupted heart." 

Lena. — Could I believe that all that troop of evils 
would follow so harmless a pastime, I would never 
again unfold the covers of a novel. 

Frank. — Were success even possible, I would try to 
convince you of the truth ; but you are so persistent in 
the maintenance of an agreeable tenet, that I fear you 
would employ your inclination rather than reason in 
forming a conclusion. 

Lena. — If I have ever given you occasion to form 
such an opinion of me, I certainly regret it ; but why 
should novel reading obscure the intellect ? We are 
brought in contact with some of the most lovely and 
pure beings that the imagination can conceive ; we trace 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 69 

their conduct through an ever eventful life ; we observe 
the motives that controlled their acts ; and are we not 
benefited ? We are also led to contemplate viler shades 
of character. We behold ignorance, misery, vice, ami 
crime; we trace their origin; they excite our loathing; 
and we discern more clearly the excellence of virtue. 

Frank. — I should certainly rejoice could I believe 
that you had been so benefited. 

Edgar. — Novels address themselves to the passions, 
and there Is great danger that we shall sympathize not 
only with the pure and lovely characters portrayed by 
the novelist, but also with those that are less worthy. 
Thieves, profligates, and murderers, are represented as 
shrewd, ingenious, and talented ; and the fact tliat they 
possess qualities that are admirable, renders them ob- 
jects of greater interest to us. We regard such charac- 
ters as necessary to form an agreeable contrast with the 
more angelic beings ; and the more deepl}' they are cast 
in blood and crime, the more pleasing is the effect. 

Lena. — How can the study of such contrasts disaffect 
the mind ? May we not admire the talent that enables 
a man to accomplish a bad purpose, and yet despise the 
doer? 

Edgar. — Novels are not read merely for the purpose 
of observing the contrasts of character presented there, 
nor for criticism ; but, as yon have said, " for amuse- 
ment." They fill the mind with lively pictures of what 
might be true ; and yet the utter improbability that a 
person would ever be placed in similar circumstances 
renders it useless that we should burden our memory 
with a record of the lives portrayed there. 

Lena. — There is one excellency, at least, that I trust 
5'ou will accord to novels ; they certainly tend to make 
the imagination more vivid. 

Frank. — My dear sister, 1 deeply regret your appar- 
ent ignorance in regard to the adaptation of words. 
Assuredl}^, you would not have used the adj active 
"lofty," instead of "distorted," had you considered 
how illy it expressed your meaning. 

Edgar. — There are many most excellent works of the 
imagination ; the productions of the most gifted minds; 
Such might well repay our perusal. But novel reading 



70 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

intoxicates our minds rather than elevates our concep- 
tions ; for, even as the inebriate, jovial with wine, fancies 
he has attained the height of happiness, so the novel 
reader, lost in the mazes of fiction, believes that all the 
longings of her mind are satisfied. Then, too, reading 
should be pursued for benefit, and ladies are seldom 
deficient in imagination. 

Frank. — That is certainly true. If all Lena's plans 
could have been carried into effect, our earth would 
have been an Eden, our home a paradise, long ago. 

Lena. — Do you condemn all works of fiction? 

Edgar. — No ; there are some fictitious writings most 
excellent in their character. I would object only to 
those which leave the mind in an excited, unsatisfied 
state, which " rob us of a higher pleasure than they 
aflbrd, since the same attention to solid reading would 
procure us loftier, purer pleasures." 

Lena. — Your argument is specious ; but I certainly 
do not like to believe it. I will not decide immediately 
on so important a question. 

Frank. — You will rather wander awhile in the ditch 
in order to see if you will be defiled. 

Lena. — No : I will stand on the bank and consider. 



THE DEMONS OF THE GLASS. 

CHAEACTERS. 

T^^t ^^^^'^^f °^ ^^^ I drinking friendB. 
Jerry opencer, j ° 

ToTTE, a fairy. 

POVERTT. 

Crime. 

Disease. 

Edith. 

Little Child and Servant. 



Scene 1. — Enter Pennington and Spencer. 

Pennington. — Now, Jerry, sit down and have some- 
thing before you go down street. This is a raw day 
out, you know. 

Spencer. — I <jan stay but a few minutes, PeuningtotL 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 71 

You are aware that I must meet my father at the depot 
in — let me see — [takes out his watch'] — ^just fifteen min- 
utes. [ They both sit down at a table^ 

Penn. — This would be a cold world, indeed, Jerry, if 
we couldn't have a little something warm to take occa- 
sionally, you know. [Bings the hell.'] Good whisky, 
Jerry, is the best thing in the world to develop the 
latent caloric in the human system, physiologically 
speaking. [Enter servant.] 

Servant. — Did you ring, sir ? 

Penn. — Yes, I rang. Bring us some of that best 
whisky, Tom. Mind, the best. Of course I rang. 
Didn't you know what to bring, without coming to see? 

Servant. — I might have known. [Aside.] He doesn't 
want much else but whisky any more. 

Penn. — Quit your muttering there, and bring the 
whisk3^ 

Servant. — Yes, sir. [Exit.] 

Spencer. — It's well to have a good friend, Penning- 
ton, and I've often thought that we ought to look to each 
other's interests a little more. James Pennington, I 
believe we are both indulging in the glass too much. 
For my part, I have determined to quit short off. 
When I drink this time with you — [eyiter servant with 
two glasses, filled, on a waiter, and exit] — it shall be the 
last. 

Penn. — What ! why, Jerry, whisky's a great institu- 
tion. It's the life and soul of a man almost. [ Takes 
up glass and hands it to Spencer ; fakes the other him- 
self; both rise.] Here's health, Jerry, and may you 
never think less of me for saying. Here's to your reso- 
lution I 

Spencer. — May you never live to realize the tortures 
of the " Demons of the Glass !" [Pennington drinks. 
Spencer, unnoticed, cautiously throws the contents of his 
glass upon the floor.] So now, Pennington, good-by. I 
must go. 

Penn. — Good-night, Jerry. Stop and see me often. 
[Exit Spencer.] " Demons of the Glass!" What does 
he mean ? I feel vei*y strange to-night. I don't think 
I'm drunk. I've been drunk before, and I didn't feel 
this way. Pshaw ! doctors often recommend whisky— 



72 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 

eay it's good for consumption. Well, so it is ; good for 
my consumption, for I do consume it sometimes, that's 
certain. Ha ! Ha 1 that's a g-o-a-k [spelled only'] as 
/riend A. Ward has it. \_Rings beW]. Whisky is good. 
" I like it," as an old hotel-keeper out West used to say. 
Good to raise the spirits. [Three or four distinct raps 
near the table. Starts in his chair, astonished.'] Hallo ! 
what's that ! Spirits raised sure enough. [Enter ser^ 
vant with glass on waiter.] You're a good fellow, Tom. 
When I shuffle off this mortal coil — die, I mean — I'll 
leave you all my old clothes. [Dri^iks.] 

Servant [aside]. — He won't have much else to leave 
an^' body, if he keeps going on at this rate. 

Penn. — You're a good fellow, Tom ; bring me another 
glass of this soul-reviving elixir of life. 

Servant [aside]. — He likes " er" that's true 1 [Aloud.] 
Another, sir ? 

Penn. — I — said — hie — another — didn't I ? An — hie — 
'nother ! Of course another. [Exit servant.] Another 
— hem ! why not ? Whisky is a fundamental princ- 
— hie — ciple. What's a fellow to do if there's no spirit 
in him. Another ? I can afford — hie — to drink as much 
as I please. I'm a — hie — able. I'm rich. I'm going to 
marry the handsomest, the richest, the most intelligent 
lady in the city. I'm going to — to — be the happiest 
man alive — [enter servant with glass — Pennington takes 
it]-— if Edith Graham and this can make me. You 
didn't put just a little too much water in this, did you, 
Tom? 

Servant. — No, I hope not. \_Exit.] 

Penn. [sets the glass on the table and looks at it]. — 
Jerry said something about "Demons of the Glass." I 
don't see any. Jerry's a good fellow, and when he said 
that, he must have meant something. I feel very strange, 
sleepy, and drowsy. [Thoughtfully and low.] "Demons 
in the glass." [Falls asleep with his head on his arm 
resting on the table.] 

[ Three or four girls sing a stanza or two of some 
temperance song — very softly— from some con- 
cealed place on the f^tage. During the singing, 
enter Totie, a fairy, dressed in white, with a 
wand in her hand.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 73 

ToTiE [looks at the sleeper]. — Ah ! who have we here? 
This man needs my attention. [Takes up the glass and 
looks at it.] Oh ! poor dehided mortal, why will you 
drink this vile stuff? I must help him to see his con- 
dition, [Waves her wand over him. He starts up and 
looks around, wildly.'] 

Penn. — Who — who — was that ? [Starts hack with 
astonishment when he sees Totie.] Who are you? 

ToTiE.— Totie ! 

Penn. — Who ? 

Totie.— Te— to— tal. Totie for short. 

Penn. — What do you want here, and with me ? 

Totie. — I came on an errand of mercy to 3'ou. 

Penn. — To me ? Well, now, that's a fine joke. Well, 
before you commence business, won't you have a little 
nip to waken up your spirits ? Hey ? 

Totie. — No, I come to warn you. That [pointing to 
glass] is what demons feed fools and dupes upon. 

Penn. [aside]. — Demons again ? [Aloud.] Fools and 
dupes ? 

Totie. — James Pennington are you a fool or a dupe? 

Penn. — I acknowledge being a ibol or a dupe ? No 1 
no, indeed ! 

Totie. — What is in that glass ? 

Penn. — Whisky ; and good whisky, too, if I am a 
judge. 

Totie.— What else ? 

Penn. [looking in the glass]. — Nothing else there, 
Totie. 

Totie. — You are blind, James Pennington. There is 
in that glass enough to make you cry out in despair 
and hide your eyes for very horror ! There are demons 
in that glass. 

Penn. [starting]. — Demons ? 

[Totie waves her ivand — Disease appeal's.] 

Penn. — Who are you ? 

Disease [in a hollow tone]. — My name is Disease. I 
am the messenger of Death, come to warn you. My 
home is there [pointing to glass], in the bottom of that 
cup. 

Penn. — Kather a small home for you, I should think, 
from your size 



74 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Disease. — It is large enough for me and all who are 
with me there. [_Exit.'] 

[ Totie waves her wand — Poverty appears."] 

Poverty. — My name is Poverty. 

Penn.. — I should say you are well named by your 
appearance. 

Poverty. — In the bottom of that glass is my home. 

Penn. — I have never seen you there. 

Poverty. — You were blind. Thousands and thou- 
sands have found me there, as you will in reality at no 
distant day. [Exit.] 

Totie. — There are others at the bottom of that cup. 
Shall you see them ? 

Penn. — Oh no I no 1 I've seen enough ! I've seen 
enough 1 

Totie. — But you shall see them, 

[ Waves her wand and Crime appears, clad in rags, 
and chains on his hands and feet.] 

Penn. — I wish to see no more. This is horrible ! 

Crime. — My name is Crime. I live at the bottom of 
yonder glass. By-and-by you will know me better, and 
do my bidding. I am a " Demon of the Glass." Those 
who use the glass, obey its lord. 

Penn. — Oh 1 leave me ! leave me ! What does all 
this mean ? 

Totie. — There is more misery there [pointing to the 
glass] — you shall see more. 

Penn. — I've seen too much now! My whole soul is 
full of terror. [Fairy waves her wand — Poverty re- 
enters, bringing with him Edith and little child.] Oh 1 
merciful heavens ! what do I see ? Is it possible ? 
That miserable woman, Edith ? Edith Graham ? 

Totie. — This is a vision of the future. That is Edith, 
your wife, and that is your child. 

Penn. — That my wife ! That half-starved child mine I 
Oh, no ! no ! That can never be. 

Totie. — Listen 1 

Child [looking up at Edith]. — t?h, mamma, I am so 
cold, so hungry. 

Edith [weeping]. — I know you are, my child, but 
food, nor clothing, nor shelter, I have not for you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 75 

Child. — Will papa come for us to-night ? I'm sure 
when he comes we will be happy again. 

Edith. — Alas ! my child, your father fills a drunk- 
ard's grave, and we are left to starve. Once we were 
rich, but now all is gone. Misery, and only misery, is 
our portion. 

\_Pennington covers his face with his hands, and 
lays his head upon the table. A few stanzas of a 
temperance song are again sung softly by the girls, 
concealed on the stage. The fairy, Edith, etc., all 
exit, softly. * * * Stands up — looks around ] 
Penn. — Was that all a dream? Oh, what a dream 1 
[^Bings the bell. Enter Tom.^ Tom, take that glass 
away. There are legions of demons in the bottom of 
it — and bring me the cold water pledge. My resolu- 
tion is taken. Never shall another drop of that vile 
liquor pollute my lips. That dream has saved me. 
[^Curtain falls.'] 



THE TWELYB MONTHS. 
[for twelve ladies.] 
COSTUMES. 
January, white dress with dark sash. 
February, white dress with dark sash. 
March, same as February. 
April, white dress with green sash. 
May, same as April, with a few flowers in her hair. 
June, same as May. 

July, white dress with pink or red sash. 
August, same as July. 
September, white dress with yellow sash. 
October, same as September. 
November, white dress with dark sash. 
December, same as November. 



[Each speaker should enter separately, and after speaking, 
lake her place in such position that after all have entered they 
will form a semicircle, facing the audience.] 

January. — I come mid frost and snow to usher in 
the New Year. Pe(->ple dre-^d me, and saj' that I am 



76 SCHOOLDAY 1? .rt'^OlirrES. 

cold-liearted and stern ; and it may be so, but I robe the 
ground with a mantle of fleecy snow, and I bind the 
babbling brook with fetters of ice. Although manhood 
and age shiver and tremble when I am near, yet the 
merry laughing children love me, and call me glorious 
January. 

February. — My name is February. The month I 
represent, gave birth to a Washington, whose deeds of 
noble valor and heroism have caused me to be loved by 
all mankind, despite the cold and frost that still linger 
about me, bequeathed to me by my scarcely more stern 
and elder sister, January. 

March. — They call me March. My fiery and tempes- 
tuous disposition has led man to name me after the 
fiery little war-god. Mars. Yet, withal, I possess some 
redeeming traits of character. I melt the frost and 
snow brought upon the earth by my two elder sisters ; 
I release the brooks from their icy fetters, and send 
them on rejoicing and babbling my praise. 1 am the 
harbinger of Spring. 

April. — It is said that I am unstable in character, 
and changeable ; that I bring rain and snow, frost and 
thaw, alternately ; but I labor for the good of mankind. 
I revive the earth ; I unfold the green leaf, and I form 
the bud that is to unfold its petals and be perfected into a 
flower. Who shall say that April does not fulfill her 
appointed mission ? 

May. — I am called loving, laughing May. I expand 
the buds, and perfect the early flowers ; (the buds of 
which my sister's hand fashioned.) I call the happy 
birds from the sunny south, and cause them to pour 
forth strains of sweetest melody to charm the ears of 
careworn man. The children love me, and call me their 
own dear merry month of May. 

June. — I com.e to herald tlie approach of Summer. 
I spread a carpet of beautiful green over the valleys, 
adorn the mountain tops with lovely flowers of the per- 
fume and choicest hues. I strew the meadows with 
lilies and buttercups, and breatne soft warm zephyrs 
that ripple the smooth surface of the glassy lake, and 
ben a the tops of the waving grass. Who shall say that 
t]\e mission of June has been in vain ? 



iCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 77 

July--/ mh named after Rome's gieatest Em[)(!ror, 
Juliuf; Crjsar. The month I represent gave birth to a 
natJoi-. vf heroes and freemen. America claims me as 
her own, for, on one of my da3's, the great American 
flquiblic was born. The American people will never 
'brget me ; for, until the end of time, the Fourth of July 
will never cease to be hailed with pride and joy. 

August. — I, too, am named after one of Rome's 
greatest Emperors, Augustus Csesar. The month I 
represent, although perhaps it can not boast of contain- 
ing the birth-day of a nation, yet I claim a high and 
noble mission. It is my mission to ripen the golden 
grain, and to prepare the harvest for the sickle of the 
reaper. Yes, the farmer loves August, for I bid him 
gather into his garner the products of his toil. 

September. — It is my mission to finish what my 
sister began. I fold the petals of the flowers, and, 
breathing my cool breath over them, bid them wither 
and fade. 1 paint the forests with gorgeous colors of 
red, 3'ellow, and green. 1 ripen the luscious fruit, and 
stain with delicate tints the rosy cheeks of the peach 
and apple. The golden corn I ripen for the husband- 
man. Ah, yes ! September, too, has her mission of 
usefulness. 

October. — It is my province to dismantle the earth 
of its robes of verdure. The delicate flowers wither and 
droop and die when the}' see me come. The little birds 
gather themselves into flocks, and flee away to a warmer 
clime at m}' approach. I breathe my cold chilling breath 
over the forests, and the leaves turn brown and sere and 
fall tumbling to the ground. October, too, has its mis- 
sion, but alas ! it is one of death. 

November. — I come forth to behold the ruin wrought 
by my sister, and behold ! all, all is dead ! The brown, 
sere leaves lie scattered here and there, or are whirled 
about by the chill Autumn winds. Mankind call me 
cold and unfeeling November, and hail me as the dread 
harbinger of frost and snow ; but such is my mission, 
and as such i< nust be fulfilled. 

December. — Uail, sisters ! I come to complete the 
circle of months. Mankind have branded me dark and 
gloomy December, and such I may be ; for slett and 



78 - SCnoOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

snow and cold frosty winds herald my approach. Men 
shiver and crouch beside their hearthstones where the 
fire glows brightly, when they hear my name pro- 
nounced ; but the month I represent contains the birth 
day of the Saviour of the world. My mission is one of 
peace ; then, though mankind shall alternately bless and 
curse us, still gentle sisters, let us join hands, and be at 
peace, and each perform her own allotted mission cheer- 
fully and in love. 

l^All join hands and si7ig,2 

Let loving friendship join our hearts 

In peace and love sincere ; 
Thus, while we each perform our parts, 

Shall pass the rolling year. 

{^Curtain falls.'] 



THE NEW PREACHER. 



CHARACTERS, 

TWISTEK. 

Wink, 
bohbasterson 

HiGHLOOK. 

Twaddle. 



Fairman. 

GiMBLET, 

coppermouth. 

Blunt. 

Chub. 



Worldly, and others. 



Scene 1. — Neighbors lounging about the door of a 
country church after service. 

Twister.— Well, neighbor Wink, I obsarved you kept 
one eye on the preacher purty keen, this mornin' ; what 
do you think of him, any way ? 

Wink.— Why, the fact is, if I was to saj^ that is, if I 
was to mention my 'pinion, so to speak, I can't 'xactly 
say that the sarmint pleased me. Just 'tween 5-ou and 
I, and I've hearn 'nough preachin' to know, he wa'nt 
altogether what might have been expected. Takin' 
every thing into the 'count, I must say that I was dis- 
appinted in the man. 



SCHOOliDAY DIALOGUES. 79 

Twister. — That" s just what I was going to say inj^self, 
Mr. Wink, but I thought I'd like to hear your opinion 
first, for you are one of the sort of folks that don't hes- 
itate to say whatever j^ou think. Now, Mr. Bombaster- 
son, what's your opinion ? 

BoMBASTERSON, [in a deep, pompous tone']. — Hem 1 
a-hem ! As for me, I think the young man might do to 
talk on a small scale to some school-house congregation, 
but as to preacMn\ why, that isn't in him ! He couldn't 
have been heered ten rod from the church, and his Bible 
lesson soiinded more like talkin' than readin'. I like 
to hear a man fire up and steam ahead from the text to 
the amen, as if he had — a — a — hem ! — as if he had 

Fairman. — Lungs like an ox, Mr. Bombasterson ? 
That is not my idea of eloquence. You have paid the 
new preacher an unintentional compliment, by saying 
his preaching and reading were like talking. I am glad 
we now have the prospect of hearing a man who has 
evidently studied the art of delivery, and has learned 
how to be natural in the pulpit, where, above every 
other place in the world, viC should expect honest}' of 
heart and naturalness of voice. 

COPPERMOUTH. — I don't object to his manner so much 
as his matter. I'd like to know what right a minister 
has to preach in favor of war, and to pray for the suc- 
cess of armies of aggression against our southern breth- 
ren ! I want to hear the pure Gospel when I go to 
church, and not politics. It's awful the way the pulpit 
has corrupted the people. I believe secession's a divine 
institution 

Blunt. — So is the bottomless pit a divine institution 1 
I glory in the Gospel that proclaims liberty to the cap- 
tive, and loyalty to the Constitution, and I glory in the 
minister that dares to declare the whole counsel of God I 
I pray for the coming of the day when eveiy Christian 
shall learn the blessed brotherhood of love as taught in 
the New Testament, and exemplified b_y our Union of 
States, and freedom of worship. Go home, Mr. Copper- 
mouth, and read the Thirteenth Chapter of Romans, 
and if you can't indorse that, then go t® the Confederacj- 
at once, you traitor, and hear the mock Gospel that wil 
V)etter suit j^ou. 



80 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Twister. — Come, brother Blunt, you know the saying, 
" Blessed are the peace-makers" 

Blunt. — Then blessed be our cannon, our swords, 
and our bayonets 

Twister. — Oh, you altogether misunderstand me ! — 
I'm loyal sir, to our country, loyal, sir, but 

Blunt. — Loyalty admits of no " buts" or "if's," sir. 
Your whole heart — your whole devotion, or nothing. 

Twister. — You misunderstand me, brother Blunt — I 
only spoke of making peace between you and neighbor 
Coppermouth, for I'm afeard jon are both a l-e-e4-l-e 
excited. 

Blunt. — Well, perhaps so; for better men than either 
of us have been excited since this war began. 

Twister. — Sa3^ friend Highlook, jo\x are a man of 
taste ; what do you think of the new preacher ? "Will 
he do ? 

Highlook [stroking his moustache, and twirling his 
vane']. — Will he do ? Well, that is a mattah of gweat 
impawtance. The refawmation of our society at lawge 
depends upon the capacity of the ministah, to no incon- 
sidawable extent. I was much mawtified to behold his 
black cwavat, and also to witness him wipe the perspi- 
wation in the pulpit with a howid wed bandanna. To 
suit us, ow ministah must weah black gloves, white 
socks, and a white neck-tie, and use invawiablj'' a white 
pocket handkerchief. Fawthamoah, his hair is a shade 
too light, and his eyes a little too keen for a placid min- 
istah of the Gospel. I shall twy, howevah, to be satisfied, 
and to attend occassionally, when the weathah is faih, 
upon his ministwations, to encouwage the young man. 
Good mawning, gentleman. [iZe bows and retires.'] 

Twaddle. — I wish Mr. Highlook had studied for the 
ministry. I do like his beautiful address. And what 
good sense and elegant manners ! What a pity that 
such splendid talent should not be used by the church 1 
I would give a handsome sum to secure the services of 
a preacher that we could be proud of 

Chub. — Raither perticler, friend Twaddle. For my 
part, I don't believe in eddycaten fellers to the preachin' 
business. The airly apostles was picked up from their 
fishin' seines, and sot right to work without any book- 



SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 81 

larnin' or polishin', and they was tirst-rate preachers, so 
they was. I'm in favor of none of your college-bred 
chaps, pretendin' to know every thing, and don't know 
how to turn a furrer or split a rail, so they don't. 

F AIRMAN. — Gentlemen, it would take more than an 
angel, and less than a baboon to suit all of you. 

Worldly. — He preached up too much piety for me. 
For one, I don't calculate to sit still and be twitted of 
my sins every Sunday, and pa^' him for doin' it into the 
bargain. I left the house before he was more'n half 
done, just to let him see he daren't pitch into me. 

Twaddle. — I heered Mr. Highlook say he heered a 
man say, who heered this 3'^oung minister preach some- 
where once, that the people thought his sermon lacked 
depth. 

[Re-enter Mr. Highlook.'] 

Highlook. — Excuse me, gentlemen, but I fawgot to 
say to you pwiah to my depawture, that it is to be feahed 
ow young ministah lacks depth of mind, if we are to 
judge from what the people say elsewhere, where he 
has held fowth. I undahstand, fawthawmoah, that his 
discoahses have no impwessive wohds whatevah, such 
as Jewawboam, the son of Nebat, Nebucadnezzah, Deu- 
tewonomy, Ecclesiasticus, or any of the ancient patwi- 
archs. 

Blunt. — Mr. Highlook, let me repeat to you for your 
edification a few lines : 

" Oh, that the mischief-making crew 
Were all reduced to one or two, 
And they were painted red or blue, 
That every one might know them." 

Highlook \_higlily offended']. — I shall see you again, 
sir I [ Withdraws.] 

Blunt [calling after him]. — If you do, you may hear 
the rest of that stanza. [Aside.] I do get indignant, 
sometimes, at the indiscriminate criticisms on preachers 
and preaching. [One by one the company goes aioay, 
until all are gone hut Blunt and Gimhlet.] Attend what 
church you maj^ you will hear, after the service, espec- 
ially in the parlor circle where neighbors visit on the 
Sabbath, all sorts of unwarrantable opinions about the 
manner of preaching, and precious little about the sub- 
6 



82 ■ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ject matter of the discourse, and nothing, whatever, as 
a personal self-application of the truth. But I must be 
patient, and do my duty. 

\_Starts toward home, when Gimblet, a silly, spong- 
ing fellow, follows him.'] 
Gimblet. — Say, Mister Blunt, I guess I'll go and 
take dinner with you to-day — 'tisn't much out of my 
way. [^Exeunt.'] 



THE SEASONS. 

Scene 2. To he represented by fifteen girls, and one 
boy to represent March. Uach season wiin its months 
passes along, with appropriate fruits, flov ers. grain, 
etc. 

WINTER. 

I COME from the distant frozen zones, 

Where the ice ever binds, and the wind ever moans. 

Cold, chilling winds follow fast in my track ; 

All frow^n at my coming, and wish me back. 

The meadows I'll cover with a mantle of snow, 

Which I scatter abroad whei'ever I go. 

With ice I will silence the murmuring streams ; 

With clouds I will hide the sun's powerless beams. 

All nature must sleep in my chilling embrace 

Till the arrival of Spring, when I must give place. 

M3' children are with me, my designs to fulfill, 

They may speak for themselves ; they all do my will. 

DECEMBER. 

I am the first-born of winter, yet of months am the last ; 
All rejoice at my coming, yet joy when I'm past; 
For my dark, gloomy days, and long, cheerless nights 
Are illumined by naught save the gay Christmas sights 
I am the favorite of the girls and the boys. 
For with me come visions of Santa Claus' toys. 
** Christmas is coming," and then 3'OU will hear 
The last dying knell of the fast passing j^ear. 
Pause, now, and think what account it will bear. 
But my mission is ended, m^^ farewell's soon said, 
And 1 haster to join the years that are fled. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 85 



I am proud Januar}'-, the first of the j^ear ; 

All rejoice at mj' coming, and joy when I'm here. 

Gladness and mirth follow close in my train, 

"A happy New Year" is heard again and again. 

My visions are bright, no forebodings I know; 

M}'^ hopes tinge all objects with fancy's bright glow. 

Fondly 1 linger, still longer I'd dwell, 

But I, too, must hasten to bid you farewell. 

FEBRUARY. 

As I am the third, and my days being few, 

With not many words I will now trouble you. 

I am short, cold, and crusty, I very well know, 

But once in four years I kindly bestow 

"A Leap Year," that ladies their husbands may choose: 

Yet I give the poor gents a chance to refuse. 

But I, too, must hasten away from your sight, 

So to all I will bid " good night ! good night 1" 



We are passing away, but ere we are gone 

You will hear the shrill notes of our winter song. 



SPRING. 

I COME, the timid and gentle Spring, 

Sweet treasures of beauty and blossoms to bring. 

The streams I'll unlock from their fetters strong, 

And soon you will hear them murmuring along. 

The cold, chilling winds will vanish away. 

For the}'- know of my coming and will not stay. 

All nature rejoices, for soon will be seen 

The earth enrobed in its vesture of green ; 

And beautiful flowers springing every where, 

Teaching a lesson of God's provident care. 

From its distant home 1 call to the bird. 

And soon will its joyous song be heard. 

To the poor and the needy sweet comfort I bring, 

And all I'ejoice to welcome the Spring. 

But my children are waiting their gifts to bestow, 

And we'll sing you a song as away we go. 



84 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

MARCH. 

I am bold March, the noisy, and proud ; 

Blowing my trumpet so long and so loud. 

Fitful and storm}^ a pest and a joy. 

For all pronounce me "a troublesome boy;" 

I care for nobodj^, no, not I, 

So I'll take my leave without a "good-by." 



Timidly I come as my rude brother leaves ; 
His boisterous manner my spirit oft grieves ; 
He chills my fond heart, and fills it with pain. 
That my heart's dearest treasures I can uot retain. 
So I weep sad tears o'er the springing flowers, 
And thus sadly vanish poor April's hours. 



Charming and gay comes the laughing May, 

Singing and skipping the glad hours away. 

Blooming so sweet are my beautiful flowers. 

Decking with gladness earth's loveliest borers. 

The forests are ringing with music most sweet, 

Happiest voices our ears ever greet. 

How charming and gay around is each scene, 

Clad in its garb of beautiful green ! 

With smiles and with joy I now pass away, 

Leaving bright visions of blooming May. 

CHORUS. 

Brother and sisters, we pass along, 
And sing, as we go, our welcome song. 



SUMMER. 

I COME from a far distant Southern clime, 

Where the orange-flowers bloom and myrtles twine; 

Wl.ere the skies ever smile over glittering seas, 

And I'ichest perfumes are borne on each breeze. 

To the North I come with my heated breath. 

Bringing, too often, disease and death; 

Yet in my steps comes the rich golden grain, 

Luscious fruits I give you, they come in my train. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 86 

The jear's bright noon-time, how pleasant it seems, 
E'en under the sun's hot, scorching beams 
M3' children, hasten and bring your store, 
Gladdenins: the hearts of men once more. 



I am June, and gladly I bring to you 
Mild, balmy air, and skies of blue ; 
Days of soft and hallowed light. 
Followed by a fairy, gentle night. 
Long, long days of sunniest noon, 
Mark the hours of radiant June. 



I am July, and close in my train 
Come the rich harvests of golden grain ; 
Berries and fruits I will bring to you 
Ere I pass away and say, " Adieu." 

AUGUST. 

August comes with its sultry days. 

Bringing rich crops of the golden maize ; 

Yet causing all to sigh for the breeze. 

Which only is found by the murmuring seas. 

The city's deserted, all flee to green fields. 

To taste of the J03^s which the country now yields. 

But my long tedious days at length will be done, 

And I, like my sisters, must be passing along. 

CHORUS. 

Warm-hearted sisters for ever we be, 
Bo sing, as we go, a farewell glee. 



AUTUMN. 

I COME, grave Autumn, proud boasters to show 
That their haughtiest works will soon be laid low. 
I breathe o'er the forests, how changed they appear 1 
The grass withers away as if in sadness and fear. 
I scatter the leaves from the loftiest trees. 
And gather them up with the eddying breeze. 



B6 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

The songsters that warble so happj and gay, 
All hasten to fli^e, at my coming, away ; 
Yet there's joy in my presence, for gladly I give 
Of my richest abundance that mankind maj^ live. 
My children are wear3' with the burdens they bear 
Of the rich, luscious fruits of the fast passing year. 

SEPTEMBER 

Quiet comes the mild September, 
Bringing joys that all remember; 
Gladdening hearts with plenteous store, 
That for all there's plenty more 
Fruit and food ; so none need fear 
Want will trouble us this year, 

OCTOBER. 

Cool October greets jon here, 
With frosty breath, so pure and clear. 
With its days, so calm and pleasant, 
Will return the jay and pheasant. 
Propping nuts fall thick apace, 
Gladdening many an urchin's face. 
But my sunshine must give way 
Before my sister's gloomy day. 

NOVEMBER. 

They call me " dull," and full well do I know 

I can boast but of little save of rain and snow. 

November's my name, which none will admire, 

But shrink at my coming and call for a fire. 

So quickly I'll leave, for I will not remain 

Where my presence brings naught but sadness and pain 



Sisters are we of the fading year. 

Please give us a song, our journey to cheer. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 87 



"LITTLE ANGELS." 

CHAEACTEES. 

Mr. and Mrs. Brown, who reside in the country. 

Mrs. DosEii. 

Pkter Jehosaphat Hezekiah Dosem. 

Prtscilla Aquilla Eebecca Dosem. 

Adam Salathiel Dosem. 

Eachel Abigail Dosem. 

EuTH Sarah Dosem. 

James St. John Simon Dosem. 

SisERA Dosem. 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Brown, peeping from the window at the 
turning into the lane leading to her house. 



Mrs. Brown. — Good gracious me ! What have I 
done to deserve such a judgment? If there hain't the 
Dosems a coming. I should know that green silk bun- 
nit among a thousand, with them pink bows of ribbon 
onto it. Oh, deliver us ! they've got that snapping 
poodle dog of theirn, and he'll scare the cat out of her 
seven senses. And only goodness knows how many 
children there is. I can count four heads stuck out of 
the winder. Dear, dear 1 what shall I do for dinner ? 
I do "wish folks would stay to home till they're invited. 
\_Stage stops. 3Irs. Dosem alights, hearing three 
hand-boxes, a carpet-hag, an umbrella, and a huge 
bouquet, and closely followed by seven children — 
three boys and four girls. She throws down her 
burdens, and running up to Mrs. Browyi, flings 
her arms around her neck.'] 
Mrs. Dosem [with empressmenf]. — Oh ! Mrs. Brown ! 
my dear, dearest Mrs. Brown I I declare it's been an 
age sense I last sot eyes on you ! I told Mr. Dosem, 
day before yesterday morning, while he was eating 
breakfast — says I, " Mr. Dosem, I must leave every thing 
and go out to Lynnham, and see dear Mrs. Brown !" 
And Mr. Dosem, he said — "Most assuredly, Lucy." 
And he's gone out to board, and we've come — ail of us ! 
The children were wild to see their dear Aunty Brown 



88 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

once more — and they're such quiet little darlings I ven- 
tured to bring them ! I knew you would be delighted 
to have them. 

Mrs B. \_fainthj']. — Of course. 

Mrs D. — That's jest what I told Mr. Dosem, and he 
said, "most assuredly." Let me name them to you. 
It has been so long since you saw the darlings that you 
may, perhaps, have forgotten their names. Peter Je- 
hosaphat Hezekiah, you are the oldest, come here and 
kiss dear Mrs. Brown. 

Peter \_pulling the dog's taW]. — Don't see the pintl 

Mrs. D.— The little angel ! He's so witty Dr. Pill- 
work said, when he was an infant, that he'd never live to 
grow up. He had too much intelligence of the brains to 
live. But I feel in hopes a merciful Providence will 
spare him to me. Adam Salathiel, you'll kiss Mrs 
Brown, wont you, lammie ? 

Adam. — Shan't do it! Don't believe in kissing no- 
body but the "gals," and especially not folks with false 
teeth 1 

Mrs. D. — Did you ever ? Children will be children. 
Come, Priscilla Aquilla Rebecca — you see we took our 
children's names from the Bible. 1 do so dislike these 
novel-writer's names. 

Peter. — Do dry up, marm, and let's go into the 
house ; I'm hungry — I am ; I want some sweet cake. 

Mrs. B. — Yes, come in pleading the way']. 

Mrs. D. — I do hope your chambers are large and airy. 
It nearly kills me to sleep in a close, hot room. It 
affects m^' respitorj^ apparatus so. Dr. Pillwork saj^s I 
should have plenty of fresh air alwa^'s. 

Miss Priscilla \_an affected miss of fifteen]. — Are 
there any botanical specimens about here, Mrs. Brown ? 

Mrs. B. [loith apuzzled air]. — Well, I can't say. There 
msiy be, but thei-e's never any of them been to this house, 
I guess. I hain't seed any. 

Miss Priscilla [_aside]. — Heavens! what ignorance 1 
I shall perish among such savages. 

Mrs. B. — Take off your things and set down, do. 

Peter [_seats himself upon a table, which upsets, and 
he goes down with it]. — Golly, that's a turntable. Take 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 89 

your hoops out of the way, Sil, and give me a lift [seats 
himself beside Priscilla on the sofa]. 

Priscilla [in dismay']. — Get up, instantly ; you'll 
ruin my dress ! Oh, dear me 1 what an iniiiction boys 
are — half-grown, uncivilized beings. Oh ! ma, do make 
him behave. He's given my nerves such a shock. If I 
coul 1 only have a cup of tea at once. 

Mrs. D. — Mercy me ! I hope you hain't going to have 
another of those nervous spells. Dear Mrs. Brown, I 
have an awful trial ; Priscilla's nerves are so out of 
kilter, I have to be as particular with her as I would 
with an infant. Get the camflre, and a little cologne, 
and a fan. And do make a cup of tea just as quick as 
you can. I feel as if I should like a drop myself. 
[Exit Mrs. Brown.] 

Mrs. D. — Mean, stingy old hunks 1 I never would 
have come nigh her, but she's got such a nice place out 
here, and she used to be a good cook. Children, you 
must stuff yourselves up well at dinner. Country air 
gives folks an appetite. We'll stay a month, if she only 
feeds us well. It will save us fort}^ dollars a week. 

Mrs. B. [entering, loaded down with bottles]. — Here's 
some camlire and arnica, and some essence of pepper- 
mint, but I hain't got no cologne. 

Priscilla [throwing up her hands hysterically]. — Good 

heavens 1 no cologne ! How do people manage to exist ? 

[Peter whistles Yankee Doodle, the two younger boys 

are playing horse, with the curtain-cord for reins, 

and the smaller girls pull hair behind the big 

rocking-chair.] 

Mrs. D. [perceiving them]. — My deai'est Rachel Abi- 
gail, and my darling Ruth Sarah, what are you doing ? 

Ruth [vindictively]. — She pulled my nose and made 
up a face at me. I'll cave her head in, I will. 

Abigail. — And she spit on my dress and scratched 
my face. 

Mrs. D. — Dear little lambs ! they must have their in- 
rccent plays. James St. John Simon, take your ftet 
cut of Mrs. Brown's work-basket, my bird. Sisera, do 
be careful how you flourish that stick around that look- 
ing-glass. There ! you've done it ! Well, mind and not 
^et any of the glass into your precious little feet. I'm 



90 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

real sorry it's broke, Mrs. Brown ; it's such a bad sign. 
But, thank tie Lord, it's only bad for the one that the 
glass belongs to. 

Priscilla [rousing up']. — Do send those dreadful 
children out to play. They'll kill me dead if they stay 
here ! 

Mrs. D. — Yes, dears. Run right out and have a good 
time. I suppose there's plenty of room about here ? 

Mrs. B. —Do, please, children, be careful about tramp- 
ling on the beans and cabbage plants. Mr. Brown is 
dreadful particular about his garden. There'd be an 
awful time if any thing should get pulled up. 

Mrs. D. [indignantly']. — They wouldn't hurt a fly! 
Now, I guess Priscilla and I will take a little nap while 
you get dinner ready. 

[ The children go scampei'ing and screaming from 
the house, and Mrs. Brown shows Mrs. Dosem and 
Priscilla upstairs.] 

Scene 2. — The dining-room. Thq JJosems seated at the 
table. Mrs. Brown, flushed and disconcerted, standing 
in waiting. 

Mrs. Dosem. — I see you have no coffee. I always 
take a cup of coffee with my dinner. The food relishes 
so much better. You needn't make it very strong. 
And have plent}^ of cream. 

Priscilla. — Pass me the bread, mother dear, if you 
please. 

Mrs. D. — My love, you must not eat any of that warm 
bread. It will injure your digestive organs. Mrs. 
Brown, have you any cold bread ? 

Mrs. B. — No ; I do not happen to have any. 

Mrs. D. — Indeed 1 I'm sorry. Good housekeepers 
are not often without cold bread. Well, just put this 
Into cold water a minnit ; onl}^ a minnit, remember. 
Priscilla is so delicate. 

Ruth [vociferously, brandishing knife and fork]. — 
Give me some more sugar— ^enough of it. I want some 
with my bread and butter. 

Abig.4^il. — i^nd I. too! and some syrup! And give 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 91 

me a piece of sweet cake ! And I want a three-pronged 
fork. 

James. — Ma, Peter is eating up all the preserves; I 
shan't get a mite. Make him stop. 

Priscilla [languidly']. — Ma, I wish you would close 
that blind ; the sun hurts my eyes. And do make 
Sisera stop drinking tea from her saucer. When will 
these children learn refinement? 

Mrs. D. [suddenly']. — Where's Bounce ? Here's just 
such a piece of steak as he likes. Where is he ? 

Peter. — In his skin. 

Mrs. D. — Don't be disrespectable, dear. What have 
you done with your sweet pet ? 

James and Adam [together]. — He's in the well. 

Ruth. — He bit me for pulling his tail, and I hove 
him in. 

Mrs. D. — Good graciovis ! my darling in the well ! 
[Enter Mr. Brown, in a state of angry excitement.] 

Mr. Brown. — What the deuce has been afoul of my 
garden ? I'd like to know if there has been a drove of 
pigs along. 

Mrs. Brown [soothingly]. — My dear Solomon 

Mr. B. — Don't " dear" me, Susan. I asked you what 
had been into the garden ? 

Mrs. B. — My dear Solomon, don't you see there's 
company ? 

Mr. B. — See ! Yes, and hear, too. Will you answer 
my question ? 

Mrs. B. — What has happened ? 

Mr. B. [furiously]. — You'd better ask what ain't 
happened. Somebody or other has tore all my beans 
up by the roots, and trod my potatoes into the ground, 
and tied my best rooster to the well pole. 

Peter [grinning] — Golly ! how he cackled ! 

Mr. B. [seizing the youngster by the collar]. — Did you 
do it? Speak, or I'll shake the breath out of ye. 

Peter. — Lemme alone. Jim and I did it to see him 
squirm. Ruth and Nab pulled up the beans. Marm, 
make him let me alone. I can't git my breath. He's 
drunk, and smells of onions. 

Priscilla [falling hack in her chair]. — Oh, heavens I 
I shall fwoon. 



92 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. B. [excitedly']. — Oh, Solomon, dear ! don't. IXi 
let him alone. Don't, I beg, Solomon. 

Mr. B. — You needn't beg, none of ye. I'm mad 
enough to shake j'ou all to pieces. All my summer's 
work destroyed by a pack of young savages. If they 
belonged to me, I'd trounce every one of 'em till they 
couldn't tell 'tother from which. 

Mrs. D. — Oh, my poor boy ! There — he's tore Peter 
Hezekiah's collar. Good gracious ! I wish we'd stayed 
to home. 

Mr. B. — I wish to zounds you had. 

Mrs. D. — I'll leave this instant. I hain't to be abused 
in this style. My angel children shan't be the victims 
of such a dreadful man. Where's my things ? 

Mr. B. — Here they are. 

Mrs. B. — Solomon, I beg of you 

Mr. B. — It's no use, Susan ; they shall leave. This 
woman did not know me last summer, when I called at 
her house just at dinner time, and now I don't know 
her. My horse is harnessed, Mrs. Dosem, and I shall 
be happy to take you to the hotel. 

Mrs. D. [indignantly]. — I wont ride a step. 

Mr. B. — Walk, then. I'm willing. 

Mrs. D. [turriingto Mrs. Brown, with dignity']. — Good- 
by, Mrs. Brown. I pity your condition with such a 
husband. I thank God that ray angel children have not 
such a parient. Come, darlings, we will go. I will 
send for our baggage. 

[Uxit the Doaems, en masse. Mr. Brown whistles 
the Rogue^s March.] 



THE YOUNG STATESMAN". 

Child. — Mamma, don't you think I would make a 
good statesman ? 

Mamma. — What makes you think so, my child? 

C. — Why, phrenologists think I am gifted in the art 
of government, and that I am bound to make a good 
lawyer. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 9S 

M. — Does it generally follow that good lawyers mako 
good statesmen ? 

C. — Yes, as a general rule they do. 

M. — But what are 3^our own views of a good states- 
man ? 

C. — Well, mamma, I suppose a good statesman is one 
who understands the constitution of our country, is well 
versed in the history of our own and foreign nations, so 
that he can judge what is best suited to the wants of 
the people he represents. 

M. — Are these all the qualifications that are necessary 
to make a good statesman ? 

C. — Well, he ought to be a good orator that he might 
be able to plead his cause in such a way as to excite the 
feelings, and awaken love, pity, or hatred, as best suited 
his subject. 

M. — But are there no other qualifications of a higher 
order necessary ? 

C. — Oh, yes ! he ought to have a good classical edu- 
cation. 

M. — My boy, I do not depreciate the merits of a 
classical education, yet I do not think it absolutely ne- 
cessary. 

C— Now, now, mamma, you are caught. Kecollect 
how often you have told me that Moses was the greatest 
statesman the world ever saw, and you know " he was 
learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and was 
mighty in words and in deeds." 

M. — Very true, my boy ; but was it his learning that 
made him such a great man ? 

C. — Well, mamma, I can only say with the inspired 
penman, that he was learned in all the wisdom of the 
Egyptians, and I suppose he wished us to understand 
that he was qualified for his office, and that it was 
learning that made him so. 

M. — My beloved boy, the same inspired penman tells 
us he was not an orator. Aaron, his brother, had to be 
his spokesman ; so you see his learning did not fullj 
qualify him for his office. 

C — Then, mamma, it must have been his wisdom. 

M — But where did he get that wisdom ? 



94 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

C — Wh3^, mamma, you know he was educated in the 
•oourt of King Pharoah. 

M. — Ah, my boy ! your last answer forces a sigh 
from the heart, and a tear from the eye of your beloved 
mother. 

C. — Not for all the world would I bring a cloud over 
the sunshine of your happy face. You are all the world 
to me. What in m}^ answer makes 3^ou look so grave ? 

M. — Oh, my beloved boy ! I know you would not 
willingly grieve 3^our mother, but — has her boy yet to 
learn that " the wisdom of this world is foolishness with 
God ?" 

C. — Then, mamma, you think the Egyptians were not 
wise. 

M. — How could the}^ be wise, when they knew not 
God ; for the wisdom of this world without the knowl- 
edge of God makes a man so high-minded and so full 
of self, that he would break a world to pieces to make a 
stool to sit on. 

C. — Mamma, where did he get his wisdom ? 

M. — Certainly not from his classical education, for 
the inspired penman tells us, that every good gift comes 
from above, " and that the fear of the Lord is the begin- 
ning of wisdom." 

C. — Thank you, my own dear mamma; you have 
brought me to see that if a man is to be truly great, he 
must be truly good. 

M. — Yes, my darling child, you have answered well 
at last. 

C. — But where, mamma, in all the whole world will 
3^ou find a man like Moses, who will stand up before a 
congress or parliament, and spread out his hands 
toward heaven, and speak and pray and plead with the 
Lord, as he did? — why the members of the house would 
saj'^ he was mad. 

M. — Yes, my boy, they might even go as far as the 
Israelites did with Moses, when they were " commanded 
to stone him with stones." 

C. — Oh, surely, mamma, they would not do so 1 

M. — I do not mean that in the nineteenth century any 
learned body of men would do so, but you know, my be^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 95 

loved boy, that hard words and cold looks fall as heavv 
upon a good man's heart as stones upon his flesh. 

C. — Well, mamma, I see what you wish ; is it not that 
every statesman should do like Moses ? spread every 
knotty question before the Lord, and never, never to 
trust his own wisdom in order that he may be just and 
wise ; and then, like Joseph, his words will have power, 
and his way will prosper. 

M. — Yes, my boy, you are now beginning to under- 
stand your mother's views of a " good statesman." 



TWO WAYS OF LIFE. 



Scene, a forest. An aged peasant is discovered, hixtding 
up a bundle of faggots. Enter a stranger, in a sjjlendid 
military dress. He looks around as if bewildered, ob- 
serves the iDoodsman, and speaks. 

Stranger. — Good-evening, venerable father 1 will you 
direct me, of your courtesy, the nearest way to the cas- 
tle of Konigstein ? 

Peasant [who does not perceive the stranger"]. — I must 
be going; little Eva will be on her way to meet me. 
[He rises.] 

Stranger. — I say! Good father! Are you deaf? 

Peasant. — I beg your pardon, my lord. Good-even- 
ing, my noble gentleman. 

Stranger. — Good-evening. Will you guide a belated 
traveler toward the castle of Konigstein ? 

Peasant. — The road lies beside the door of my cot- 
tage, and I am this moment going thither. Come with 
me, my lord, and if you will do us the pleasure to enter 
ouv humble dwelling, my Marie will be proud to offer 
you apples from our orchard, and the best of cheese and 
butter from her dairy. 

Stranger. — Thanks ! And I, in return, will bestoTt 
■■ihis broad piece of gold upon your little Eva, as a keep 
sake. 



96 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Peasant [aside']. — He knows Eva's name. A gold 
eagle of the grand duke. [Aloud.'] ' You must be very 
I'ich, my noble lord ? 

Stranger. — Yes, my good friend; my cool head, and 
my good sword, have brought me wealth and honor. 
And yet, /played beside a peasant's hut in my days of 
childhood, like your little Eva. 

Peasant. — And noio, my honorable gentleman ! 

Stranger. — And now. — The history of your country, 
for the last ten years, is but the record of my deeds — I 
am the emperor ! 

Peasant. — And what may that be, my gracious lord ? 
It is, perhaps, one of the officers of the grand duke ? 

Stranger. — Is it possible ! And this is the fame I've 
fought and struggled for ? No, old man 1 I am the Tnas- 
ter of the grand duke ! Have you not heard that he has 
been driven from his dominions, and forced to take 
refuge in America ? 

Peasant. — No, my lord ; I had not heard of that. So 
the poor old duke is gone 1 He must be about my age 
I've heard my mother say, the joy-bells were ringing for 
his birth the morning I was christened. It must be a 
sad thing, to be driven from one's home and country in 
one's old age, my lord emperor ! 

Stranger. — Yes. But we will not speak of that. 
What have you been doing these ten years past, not to 
have heard of these great events which have been going 
on around you ? 

Peasant. — J? I have ploughed and sown the few 
acres my father left me ; reaped and gathered in my 
scanty harvests. I have seen my fair daughter Lena 
grow up, in innocence and goodness, beside our humble 
hearth, and leave it, wearing the roses of a bride, to 
make the happiness of another not less humble. And 
since, I have seen her laid beneath the blossoms of our 
village graveyard, in%ie hope of the happy resurrection 
of the just. And now, 'her child — our little Eva — fills her 
place in our poor hut, and my good Marie guides her 
feet in the ways of obedience and truth. 

Stranger. — And have you been happy in this quiet 
life, old man ? 

Peasant. — Why not, my lord emperor? I have a 



SCHOOLDAY DIAI.OGUES. 97 

cottage, dear as a lifetime's home can be. I have the 
society of my faithful wife, my patient, noble Marie; 
and we share between us the whole heart of our Eva — our 
winsome, prattling grandchild. I have a heart at peace 
with all mankind, and sure and precious hopes for the 
Ii.t3 which is to come. 

Stranger. — And such are the simple, homefelt joys 
my mad ambition has trampled upon ! Josephine ! now 
do 1 feel the justice of thy reproaches. \_Takes off his 
hat.'] M3' good friend, it seems you, too, have been a 
sort of conqueror ? 

Peasant. — Wh}^, yes, ray lord. I have conquered 
some rocks and thorns in my rugged fields and gardens ; 
and many a rock}^ fault and thorny grief in my own 
heart beside. But I thank mj'^ God, this hand has never 
been stained in the blood of a fellow-man I 

Stranger. — I wish / could say as much ! [ Takes the 
hand of the woodsman.] Old man, the conqueror of 
Europe envies your felicity ! 



TOO GOOD TO ATTEND COMMON SCHOOL. 

CHAEACTERS. 

Tom Smith, a specimen of " Young America." 
William Stkady, ] g^i^ooij^^^tes 
Charles Candid, r " ^^'^ 



Tom. — Halloo, Bill I which way so fast ? 

William. — That is not my name, sir. My name is 
William. 

Tom. — It seems to me that you ai'e mighty particular. 
Well, William, then — Master William, if that suits you 
any better — which way are you walking so fast this 
morning ? 

William. — Why, to school, to be sure, and I have 
but little time now to talk with you, for I fear I shall 
be late. 

Tom. — Pshaw 1 what's the use in always being so 



98 SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

punctual, I'd like to know ? They don't pay you for il, 

do they ? 

William. — I do not receive money from any one, if 
that is what you mean ; but I do get well paid for being 
in season, by gaining the approbation of my teachers, 
and also by not losing any of my recitations. 

Tom. — Perhaps yoit can, but I can not see that a fellow 
gains so much by worrying himself about being in 
school, always just to the minute. Why, one loses a 
good deal of fun in the street by that. Sometimes, just 
as the bell rings for school, the ^re hell rings also, and 
then I like to run and see where the fire is, and how the 
machines work. You know, too, it might be our house, 
and then how bad I should feel not to be there. I think 
a boy might be excused for being a little late, at such a 
time. 

William. — I don't know about that, but I do know 
that running after engines is bad business for boys. 
They are apt to get into bad company-, and hear bad 
language, and learn bad manners in such places. Then, 
tod, they are apt to get in the way, and get hui't. 

Tom. — Oh ! that's all nonsense. The bad talk and 
bad manners don't hurt me ; and as to getting in the 
way, I have helped to put out a good many fires. I can 
help draw a machine, and work it, too. Why, some of 
us boys "stole a march" on the engine companj' the 
other night, got out the machine, and worked it all by 
ourselves. 

William. — I grant you are rather smart — Sxvift by 
name, and swift by nature ; but you will not convince 
me that the influence of such places and company is not 
already working in your mind for ill. I can see it in 
3'^our talk now. This running about the street, when 
you should be at school, every good and wise person 
will tell you is bad business. But come, j^ou had betlei 
go to school now. I must go. \^Starts.'] 

Tom. — Oh ! hold on a bit — don't be in such a hurry 
There is time enough yet. I am a good runner, and if 
I start when I hear the clock begin to strike, I can get 
to m}' school in time. 

William. — You see I am not so swift as you are. I 
can not stay any longer. There comes my friend Charles 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 99 

Candid — he has a vacation to-day. I must leave you 
to finish this argument with him. 

\_Exit William and enter Charles.'] 

Charles. — Good raornino;, Tom. 
Tom. — Good morning, Charlie. 

Charles. — I noticed you and William were having 
an earnest talk. What was the subject ? 

Tom. — Oh, his hobby — school and punctuality. 
Charles. — I hope you did not disagree with him on 
that. 

Tom. — Yes, I did. I go for the largest libert^^ yet I 
am an advocate for attending school when it suits my 
convenience. He thinks I am a little reprobate, just 
because I like to be free, and run with the fire engine 
sometimes, instead of being at school just to the minute 
every day. I expect he takes his seat just at nine 
o'clock, and looks as demure as a little priest, and 
thinks he is very good. 

Charles. — Well, sir, do you expect to get to school 
this morning ? If you do, I will not detain you. 

Tom. — Oh, I'm in no hurry. I am going down to the 
depot, before I go to school, to see the trains come in. 
Don't we boys have good times jumping on the cars, 
riding a little, and then jumping off again ? 

Charles. — As to that I can not say. I never tried 
it. I expect you will get your head or limbs broken 
yet. 

Tom. — Pshaw 1 I am not afraid of that. I can jump 
like a streak of lightning. But I see by your eye 3'^ou 
are not pleased with my talk. You look like a very 
clever chap. Where do you go to school ? 

Charles. — To the Union school. 

Tom. — Why, that's a free school, is it not? 

Charles. — Yes; what of that? 

Tum. — Mother says she would not let me go to a free 
school "for all the ivorld.'" 

Charles — Wh}^ ? 

Tom. — There are bad boys who go there. She is too 
careful of my morals for that. 

Charles. — Well, well! I think she must have an 
eye to them, indeed, from the fruits which I see. J 



100 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

guess you need not be afraid of any you would be liable 
to meet there. There is, now and then, by the way, a 
bad boy who chances to get into a private school. 

Tom. — So father says ; and he groans not a little 
about being taxed so much for these free schools, and 
once in a while, when he gets out of patience about 
taxes, he says, " Hang it ! 1 have a good mind to send 
Tom to a free school and gain something myself." But 
mother says, " Why, Tom go to a free school! never! 
'twould ruin the precious darling for ever!" So father 
yields — puts a new quid into his mouth and walks off 
to the store. 

Charles [laughing']. — Well, Tom, you are a pretty 
smooth talker, but to be a little more serious, I want to 
go back again to our starting point. 

Tom. — 1 must say I am tired of this — but let us have 
your creed and end it. 

Charles. — Well, I fully believe that a tardy boy is 
in great danger of becoming a truant, and in the end 
likely to grow up a loafer, with a fair chance of promo- 
tion at an early age, from the sti'eet school to the peni- 
tentiary high school, and from that, perhaps, to one of 
the state colleges, vulgarly called "State's Prison." It 
will make little difference whether he start in a free or 
select school. 

Tom [excitecC]. — You impudent fellow! I have a 
great mind to thrash you. 

Charles [putting his hand on Tom^s shoulder^. — 
Hold on — keep quiet. This ma}^ seem severe, but 1 
speak as a friend. You may yet thank me for it. 
Promise me you will think seriously of this, and mend 
your wa3^s, before it is too late. 

Tom [hesitatingly]. — Well, I do not know what to 

say — perhaps I will, but here comes the ten o'clock 

train — I'm off — good-by. 

Charles [alone]. — Poor boyl I fear he is on tho 
sure road to ruin. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. lOl 



FIRESIDE COLLOQUY. 

Lucy, — How beautiful the world is ! The green 
earth covered with flowers — the trees laden with rich 
blossoms — the blue sky — the bright water, and the 
golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful ! and 
He who made it must be beautiful. 

William. — It is a happj^ world. Hark ! how the 
merry birds sing, and the young lambs skip — see, how 
thej' gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and 
the brooks ripple in gladness. The eagle, too, oh, 
how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens 1 the 
bird of liberty, the bird of America. 

Lucy. — Yes : — 

" His throne is on the mountain top ; 
His fields the boundless air ; 
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 
The skies, his dwellings are." 

William. — It is a happy world ; I see it and hear it 
all about me ; nay, I feel it, here, in the glow, the elo- 
quent glow of m}' own heart. He who made this great 
world must also be happy. 

Lucy. — It is a great world. Look off to the mighty 
ocean, when the storm is upon it ; to the huge mountain, 
when the thunder and the lightnings play over it ; to 
the vast forest, the interminable waste, the sun, the 
moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the 
sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent 
world, and He who made it — oh, He is the perfection of 
all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all glori- 
ousness ! 

Feank. — What is the shape of the world, or of the 
earth ? 

William.- -It is round, or nearly so ; it is what is 
called an oblate spheroid, having about twenty-three 
miles greater diameter from East to West, than from 
North to South. 

Lucy. — Yes-, you know, Frank, our little geography 



102 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

" The world is round and like a ball, 
Seems swinging in the air ; 
A sky extends around it all, 
And stars are shining there." 

Frank. — The world round like a ball ! do you believe 
that, mother? 

Mother. — Yes ; men called navigators, have sailed 
around the world in ships, and come to the same place 
they started from — like a fl}^ walking around an apple. 

William. — That is called circumnavigating. 

Lucy. — That is a very long word ; I suppose it was 
made so, because it is such a great distance around the 
world. 

William. — Lucy, can j^ou spell the word, and prop- 
erly divide the syllables and pronounce them as you go 
along ? 

Lucy. — Yes ; I think I can. 

William. — Well, go on. 

Lucy. — Cir-cum-nav-i-gate. Circumnavigate. 

William. — You are correct, Lucy. 

John. — How far is it around the world ? it must be a 
great distance, I think, mother. 

Mother. — It is said to be about twenty-five thousand 
miles: I believe, I am right, William, am I not? 

William. — Yes ; and its diameter is about one third 
this distance, or about eight thousand miles. 

John. — What is that which you call diameter, Wil- 
liam ? 

William. — The distance straight through, from one 
side to the other ; just as I run this knitting-needle 
through this apple — thus. 

Frank. — William, how does any person know how 
far it is through the earth? no one has ever went 
through to measure it, I guess. 

William. — True, Frank ; no person has ever actually 
measured it ; but there is a mathematical rule that will 
find the diameter of any thing circular in form, when 
yon have the circumference. 

Lucy. — W^iat is that, William ? 

William. — If the circumference of the earth is twen- 
ty-five thousand [25,000] miles, b^^ dividing this distance 
by the tabular number 3.1416, will give the diameter ; and 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 103 

if tL<^ diameter of any circle or sphere be multiplied by 
this number, it will give you the circumference. 

Lucy. — Oh, yes ! and they know the distance around 
the outside; and to divide this distance bj^ three, or that 
other number you mentioned, will give the diameter. 

William. — Yes. 

Frank. — Why, William, can they measure distance 
on the great ocean? 

William. — Yes. 

Lucy. — How far is it to England, or across the 
A.tlantic ocean ? 

William. — About three thousand [30GO] miles. 

Lucy. — And the Pacific ocean, how wide is it ? 

William. — It is called ten thousand [10,000] miles. 

Frank. — How many oceans are there on the earth ? 

William. — There is said to be five oceans ; but more 
properly speaking there is but one, having different 
names applied to different portions : as Pacific, Atlantic, 
Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic. 

Frank. — Why, I suppose there must be nearly as 
much water as land — how is it, William ? 

William. — A great deal more water than land ; 
three fourths of the globe is said to be water, and one 
fourth land. 

Prank. — You astonish me 1 

William. — To think, too, of the tides of the ocean — 
how the water rises and falls, twice every twenty- 
four hours — the incomprehensibility of its inhabitants 
— the great leviathan, how he sports therein, and other 
interesting things connected with the ocean, the 
heavens, and the earth — often constrains me to think 
of David when he sings in the one hundred and third 
psalm — " Bless the Lord, oh, my soul : and all that is 
within me, bless his holy name." The ninety-sixth 
psalm likewise is very beautiful. 

Lucy. — 

" God moves in a mysterious way, 
His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
And rides upon the storm !" 

William. — Why, Lucy, you seem quite poetic this 
evening ; by the way, it is said the verse or couplet you 



104 SCHOOT.DAY DIALOGUES. 

just now repeated, contains all the parts of speech, 
grammatically speaking, in the English language ; but for 
m^' part I think there is one of the eight parts wanting. 

IjUCY. — What is that ? 

William. — The inteij-clion. 

Frank. — I wonder h;i.v many people there are in the 
world ? 

William. — It is said there are one billion [1,000,000,- 
000] persons in the world ; all of which are comprised 
in only five distinct races, called the Caucasian or 
white race ; the yellow or Mongolian ; the black or 
African race ; the brown or Malay, and the red or 
American race, called also aborigines. 

Frank. — Why, are not we of the American race ? We 
live in America, and were horn here, too. 

William. — No; our ancestors came from Europe; 
we are sometimes called Anglo-Saxon, too. Our fore- 
fathers landed at Plymouth, in Massachusetts ; a settle- 
ment was also made at Jamestown, in Virginia ; but 
those settlements were made long after Christopher 
Columbus discovered America. You will observe, Frank, 
that the negroes born here in America are still called 
Africans, although they first saw the light and have 
been reared here in this country ; and it T\ould be the 
same were the Indians to go to Europe ; the}^ would 
still be called Indians, or "red men." 

Frank. — Were the Indians and negroes here in 
America when Columbus discovered it ? 

William. — The Indian was, but not the negro ; he 
was brought here b}^ the English when they settled at 
Jamestown, and made a slave of by them ; he was 
brought here from Africa. 

Lucy. — I have often thought that the discoAery of 
America, by Columbus, was in its effect, one of the great- 
est events that ever occurred in the world's histor3^ 

William. — Most unquestionably one of the greatest 
events that has occurred, since the advent of our Sa^•iour 
Jesus Christ into our world, has been the discovery of the 
Western Continent — great in a variety of wa3's ; promi- 
nent among whii h is the great goodness of God in open- 
ing a way or outlet, for the people of the over-populated 
countries of the Eastern Hemisphere; a land, too, where 
monarchy and despotism in the affairs of government find 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 105 

no favor. To think, too, what would have been the con- 
dition of millions of people, now happ,y, prosperous and 
contented, and in this glorious land of freedom — "the land 
of the free and the home of the brave" — if the great dis- 
covery of this continent had not then or since taken place. 
But thanks to God for the realization of this sublime fact 
Another great fact, scarcely less grand and stnpen' 
dous, connected with the discovery of America, was the 
demonstration (of theory only heretofore) that the world 
or earth was round, or of globular shape. This proof 
has been of inestimable value to science and art ; truly, 
astronomy and geography without this knowledge would 
be but a myth, and the celestial as well as the terrestrial 
world, an unknown and undiscoverable mysterj'. Oh! 
when I think, were it possible to obliterate all the 
attending circumstances, grandeur, goodness, greatness, 
and glory connected with this great event, "I am lost 
in wonder, love, and praise!" 

Frank. — When did Columbus discover America? 
Lucy. — In the year one thousand four hundred and 
ninety-two. Three hundred and seventy -four j-ears ago. 
William. — Yes, and now we number thirty-seven 
States, and a population of over thirty-one millions in 
the United States alone ; then there is South America, 
Mexico, British America, West India Islands, etc., not 
included in this account. 

Frank. — Oh, Lucy, don't you remember that beautiful 
poem that you recited on last examination day, called 
" Three Days in the Life of Columbus ?" 

William. — I suppose he refers to that beautiful 
translation from Delavigne, Lucy. Won't you repeat a 
passage from it, and that will conclude our pleasant 
chit-chat for this evening? 
Lucy. — 

But hush I he is dreaming I — a vail on the main, 

At the distant horizon, is parted in twain. 

And now. on his dreaming eye. — rapturous sight! 

Fresh bursts the New- World from the darkness of night. 

0, vision of glory ! how dazzling it seems ! 

How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams ! 

How bhie the far mountains ! how glad the green isles ! 

And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smilea . 

"Joy ! joy!" cries Columbus, " this region is mine !" — 

Ah ! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thiue. 



106 SCHOOLUAY DIALOGUES. 

But lo ! his dream changes ; — a vision less bright, 
Comes to darken and banish that scene of delight, 
The gold seeking Spaniards, a merciless band, 
Assail the meek natives, and ravage the land. 
He sees the fair palace, the temple on fire, 
And the peaceful Cazique 'mid their ashes expire; 
He sees too, — 0, saddest, 0. mournfullest sight ! — 
The crucifix gleam in the thick of the fight. 
More terrible far than the merciless steel, 
/ Is the uplifted cross in the red hand of Zeal. 

Again the dream changes, Columbus looks forth, 
And a bright constellation, beholds in the North. 
'Tis the herald of empire ! a people appear. 
Impatient of wrong and unconscious of fear ! 
They level the forest, — they ransack the seas, — 
Each zone finds their canvas unfurled to the breeze. 
" Hold !" tyranny cries ; but their resolute breath 
Sends back the reply, "Independence or death !" 
The ploughshare they turn to a weapon of might. 
And, defying all odds, they go forth to fight. 
They have conquered ! the people, with grateful acclaim, 
Look to "Washington's guidance, from Washington's 
Behold Cincinnatus and Cato combined, [fame ; — 

In his patriot heart and republican mind. 
0, type of true manhood ! What scepter or crown. 
But fades in the light of thy simple renown? 
And lo ! by the side of the Hero, the Sage, 
In freedom's behalf sets his mark on the age; 
Whom science adoringly hails, while he wrings 
The lightning from Heaven, the scepter from kings ! 
At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness Ijreaks. — 
" Land ! land !" cry the sailors, " land ! land," — he awakes, 
He runs, — yes ! behold it I — it blesseth his sight, — 
The land ! 0, dear spectacle ! transport ! delight ! 



POCAHONTAS. 

Scene. — A group of half a dozen Indians, and Pow- 
hatan in the foreground, with a large club in his hand. 
Captain Smith hound, hands and feet, lying with his 
head upon two stones. 
Powhatan [7^aising his club']. — 

TJgh ! when the wolf strays in the snare, 

The hunter has his prej"- ; 
No more the wolf shall seek his lair, 
Or prowl the hunter's way. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 107 

[ With a scream, Pocahontas rushes before her father, 
weeping, and throws her arms about him. PoW' 
hatan drops his club, and regards her savagely. 1 
Pocahontas. — 

Oh, father, set the white man free, 

Hold back the lifted blow I 
Let not the lightning scathe the tree 
The winds have pinioned low. 

Powhatan [sternly^. — 

Begone ! and get you to your mates, 

As birds flee from the storm ; 
A squaw's weak hands are useless weights 

To check the warrior's arm ! 

Pocahontas [clinging to his right arm']. — 
These hands have plumed thy eagle crest, 

And wrought thy tufted crown! 
The dove shall flutter at thy breast 

Until thou strike it down. 
My father, spare the white brave's life, — 

I cling thine arm to speak ; 
My veins are with the same blood rife 

As that which paints thy cheek ; — 
Oh, hear her plea ! Thj' daughter prays, 

And when the sachems smoke 
Around the council fire's bright blaze, 

Thine own decree revoke ! 
This guiltless blood will taint the breeze 

That climbs its skyward path ; 
How shall Powhatan then appease 

Our great Manitou's wrath ? 
Powhatan. — 

The braves inclose the council fire, 

Its secrets are their own, 
You know not of Manitou's ire. 

What signs to squaws are shown ? 
Pocahontas [vehemently']. — 

The signs that streak the cloud's black fold 

With livid, zig-zag fire. 
That make the Indian maiden bold 

To stand before her sire 1 



108 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

The signs that walk across the sky 

And through the sunset's gold, — 
They say the pale-face shall not die, 

That I thine arm shall hold. 
Powhatan hears the young squaw plead, 

Will he not grant her prayer? 
Oh, sachem, give thy daughter heed, 

And spare the captive there ! 

Powhatan. — 

Powhatan's word is like the life 

Powhatan's body holds. 
And I have sworn to sheathe my knife 
Among his scalp-skin's folds ! 

\_Pointing to Smith.'\ 
Pocahontas [^pointing upward]. — 

The eyrie bird swoops down to prey 

Upon the tame hawk's head ; 
The white dove soars across his way — - 
He tears her breast instead. 
\She kneels by Smith''s side, and lays her head on his.'] 
As unto him thou would 'st have dealt, 

Deal unto me the like. 
M3' scalp shall dangle at thy belt, 
And now, my father, strike 1 
Powhatan [^noved']. — 

The Eagle will not wet his beak 

In his own nestling's blood; 
Powhatan hears his daughter speak, 
And what she saj^s is good. 

[^Regarding her proudly.^ 
The Eagle's spirit lives in thee, 
Thou hast his dauntless eye I 

\^ To his attendantii, haughtiy.'] 
TJnbind and set the captive free. 
The pale-face shall not die ! 
\^ He folds his arms while they unbind Captain Snnth 
who kneels to kiss the princesses hand.] 
[ Curtain falls.] 



S^HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 109 



i5£ lUTY OF FACE AND BEAUTY OF SOUL; 
OR, WHAT I WOULD BE. 

CHAEACTEES. 

Jui.i \NA, a gay yoang girl. 

CiiR STOPHER, Juliana's brother, who would be a wit. 

Mar r, would be a genius. 

I.:zz_E, a sedate young lady who strives to be, and to do good. 



[All seated to,(i:ether on a veranda, the girls examining a print 
of Cleopatra while the young man is engaged in reading.] 



Juliana [_still gazing on the picture']. — Qneen of won- 
drous beauty I it's no marvel that kings and princes, 
priests and generals, bowed at her shrine, and were 
made captives to her fascinations. I would give all the 
world to be as beautiful. 

Chris, [without raising his eyes from his book]. — 
" Handsome is that handsome does," my fair sis. 

Juliana. — No one asked yoic to speak. Boys are 
always interfering ; and then j'ou need not say any 
thing, for you know you had much rather be seen in 
the street with handsome girls than homely ones. 

Chris. — And for a very good reason, pretty one. 
Being a truly affectionate brother, I, of course, should 
prefer the society of such as would remind me of " The 
girl I left behind me," at home. Besides plain looking 
girls are more generally sensible. [ Winking to Lizzie.] 
And sensible girls would not be seen walking with me. 

Juliana [in an offended tone^. — Talk as much as 
you please about sense, I know, and you know, too, 
that beauty is more thought of than any thing else. The 
high and low, learned and illiterate, young and old, 
rich and poor, all bow to the sceptre of Beaut}''. Even 
King Solomon, the wisest man that ever ruled a king- 
dom, wrote a great deal on the subject. 

Chris. — Ahem! so he did, little one. " Favor is de- 
ceitful, and beauty is vain ; but a woman that feareth 
the Lord, she i^hall he praised," so said King— 
S-o-l-o-m-o-n. 



no SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Juliana [with sjnrit']. — I wish father would make 
you go out to work with Patrick ; the house is no place 
for boys. 

Chris, [laughing']. — Just so, I thought, petite Nan- 
nie, so I came out here to sit and take the air. Besides, 
mother tells me, that " the society of intelligent unci 
refined young ladies, improves a verdant lad more than 
anything else," so I am trying its effect, and think I 
can perceive an improvement. But girls [addressing 
Mary and Lizzie], why don't you speak ? The veranda 
is open for discussion. 

Juliana. — I suppose they're afraid of having you for 
an opponent. Of course, you would be. The phrenolo- 
gist said: "you were always on the contrary side," and 
he spoke the truth then 

Chris, [interrupting']. — If he didn't when he said 
your bump of vanity was plus seven. 

Juliana. — You don't give the girls any chance to 
.speak. Come, Mary, please tell us what you would 
rather be ; and Lizzie, too. I'll keep still, and as for 
Chris, Ae's improved so much, there'll be no danger of 
your being interrupted by him. 

Mary [laughing]. — We all know Lizzie delights in 
doing good more than any thing else, (wish I could say 
the same of myself,) but 1 thought it was generally known 
that genius was my hobby. I almost worship genius 
wherever found, and would give the best half of the 
world to be a genius of some kind — either a poet, artist, 
or a celebrated vocalist. Why, I've almost a holy rever- 
ence for every word Lord Bryon has uttered, (despite 
his faults and follies). Then there's Charlotte Bronte, 
Kate Hayes, and our own Hatt3' Hosmer. [A pause.] 

Lizzie. — Yes, dear Marj?^, we need not go to the Old 
World for fine specimens of genius, while our glorious 
Whittier lives (Freedom's noblest poet), and hezvillUve 
f)r evermore ; for the good and true never die. Their 
influence is as lasting as time, their " thoughts that 
breathe, and words that burn" are immortal. 

Mary. — That is true, Lizzie ; Whittier's genius is a 
uoble one. Then there is our own " Anna Dickinson," 
Tif whose talent, virtues, and genius we may be justly 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Ill 

proud, and in point of physical beauty I think she will 
not suffer in comparison with Egypt's vaunted queen. 

Juliana. — That's just what I say. Geniuses are 
always beautiful. 

Chris, [^shutting his book and jumping up']. — If 1 may 
be allowed to speak 

Mary and Lizzie [speaking at once and laughing']. — 
Certainly, "the veranda is open to discussion." 

Chris. — I presume you all accord to Dr. Watts 
great genius ? 

Girls \in one breath]. — Yes, we do. 

Chris. — And have heard the story about his physical 
delurmity ? 

Juliana. — Nol 

Lizzie. — What is it? 

Mary. — Please tell us. 

Chris. — He w^as a small, plain-faced, illy-formed man, 
and, at one time, was in company, among whom were 
some strangers, and he was pointed out to one of them 
as " the author, Dr. Watts." When the stranger ex- 
claimed, in astonishment, " What ! that the great Dr. 
Watts I That little, insignificant man !" Whereat, the 
doctor drew himself up, and with upraised ai'ms, re- 
peated slowly and distinctly, these impromptu lines : 
" Were I so tall as to reach the pole. 
And clasp the heavens with a span, 
I must be measured by my soul, 

The mind is the standard of the man." 
And that's what I call genuine wit. 

Lizzie. — Coupled with true greatness, Christopher. 

Juliana. — Yes ; Chris, is always harping upon wit. 
Artemus Ward is his hero. \_Laughing.] 

Chris. — I never shall have for m}^ heroine an infatU' 
ous woman. Though she be as beautiful as an angel, I 
should know 'twas a " fallen one." [With emphasis.] 

Mary. — We must give to every one his just due. 
Cleopatra was talented and highly accomplished, as well 
as beautiful in person — and 'tis for that I admire her— 
her rare gifts of intellect. What say jon, Lizzie, to 
that? 

Lizzie. — I am reminded at this moment, of words 
uttered by a little boy. He had heard read " Byron's 



112 SCHOOLDAV DIALOGUES. 

Address to the Ocean," when he turned to his mother, 
and said, "It is grand, it is beautiful, mother, but 
there's no God in it." And I would that all lovers of 
literature were as discerning in regard to the excellencies 
and defects of the authors they read, as was that little 
boy. There should be an evident aim to benefit, as well 
as to please the imagination of the reader ; as a friend 
remarked the other evening upon the writings of T. S. 
Arthur, that, " though there was a sameness in his 
stories, still she liked them, for he seemed to have an 
aim, and that was what she wanted to see in a writer." 
And I think it may be said of that excellent writer, as 
was said of one in former years, that "he never wrote 
one line which, when dying, he w^ould wish to blot out." 
We should live to do good. 

Chris. — You express my sentiments exactly, if I am 
a harum-scarum youth ; but it's my opinion the more 
wit one possesseth, the more good he can accomplish. 

Mary. — I indorse Lizzie's sentiments, too, and I 
don't know who ca7i "do good," if a real genius can't. 
But they're not always good. 

Juliana. — Well, I'm not going to give up beat, with- 
out one word more. What's the first question asked 
when a stranger's name is introduced ? Isn't it " how 
does he look 5"' " is she, or he, handsome ?" etc. 

Chris. — With all due respect for the opinion of my 
sister, I must say no ; who would ever think of asking 
if N. P. Willis and Professor Longfellow were pretty 
men [in a dejDreciating tone'] 1 We all know they have 
beautiful souls, and Whittier says, the " Good are 
always beautiful." [I believe it is Whittier.] Mary 
must correct me if I'm wrong. [_Mary nods assent.'] I 
had 'much rather see a plain house well furnished, than 
to see a splendid structure unfurnished, or but poorly 
furnished. Who would want to stand out of doors all 
the time to look at the outside of a house? I should 
want to enter into the inner sanctuary, and find some- 
thing on which to feast mi/ soul. You see I'm getting 
sentimental [humorously]. Well, it's all the effects 
of the company I've been in, but [looking at his watch] 
the hour for my recitation is near, and I must leave, 
though with reluctance, for I'm convinced mother is 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 113 

about right in regard to her opinion of society. [And 
wishing the girls a very pleasant afternoon, bows, and 
retires.'] 

Lizzie. — I tliiuk, Julie, you are not altogether in 
fault. We are too apt to inquire how a person looks. 
But I think it's more a habit we have fallen into, than a 
fixed principle, though we all like to see a fine face and 
form. But if there is not a corresponding beauty of 
mind and soul, we are sadly disappointed. There 
occurs to memory one, of whom I never heard the 
question asked, "how did she look?" 'Tis the sainted 
Mary Lj^on ; we each know of her self-sacrifice, devotion 
to her calling, and the great good she accomplished. 
And I am sure that either of you would rather have the 
same said of you, when you've passed away from earth, 
than that you were merely a great genius, or a celebrated 
beauty ? 

Mary. — Yes, Lizzie, I would. 

Juliana. — I suppose so, if there could be but one thing 
said of me. 

Lizzie. — "For the eye and cheek will fade, 
Mary [repeats']. — Beauty owns immortal grace; 
Lizzie. — Throned she sits within the soul, 
Mary. — That is beauty'' s dwelling-place.^^ 
Lizzie. — Yes ; the form so admired to-day for its 
comeliness, will in a few years decay and moulder in the 

dust; "but the soul, immortal as its sire " 

Mary and Lizzie [in concert]. — "Shall never die.'" 
Lizzie. — Then, since all of earth must perish, may we 
each strive to possess what never fades — the beauty of 
the soul. [Scene closes.] 



UNCLE ZEKE'S OPINIO:^ 

CHARACTEES. 

Processor. Trachkr. Patriot. Poet. 

Unci.k Zeke (an old fasliioned farmer quite aged). 
Seth Spriggins, a Green Mountaineer. 

Uncle Zeke. [sitting apjjarently in deep reflection, 
Cd^imencp^ talking]. — Well, I havn't got much longer 



11-4 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to live, and I don't care. There's nothin' much -worth 
liviii' for in this world now, the wa}'^ things is goiu'. 
This country my father fought and bled and died for, 
on Bunker's Hill, is no longer the happy, harmonioua 
republic they then established ; but a great, over-grown, 
sickly thing, bavin' within itself the elements of its own 
destruction. Ever since I heard the Charter Oak had 
fell, I have knowed its doom was sealed. Alas ! it is 
droopin', witherin', dyin'. It is torn limb from limb by 
internal factions ; its best friends is its greatest enemies. 

Patriot. — What is the matter, Uncle Zeke, that you 
should be letting off your superabundant steam in that 
fashion ? You, one of our best men, the son of that 
brave little band that shed their blood so freeh^ and 
gave our nation the deathless name it then acquired ; 
you, sir, to turn recreant to the principles they there 
defended ; you, who stood by her in her adversity'', to 
forsake her in her prosperitj^ when she stands the 
pride of the continent, the chief luminary of the world 
Nobl}'^ did her sons establish her name ! nobly have 
their sons protected and improved their patrimony I 

Teacher. — Yes, nobly ! and in what way more nobly 
than in designing and perfecting the admirable system 
of common schools we possess — the secret of our pros- 
perity, the talisman of our success. 

Uncle Zeke. — There you have it ! Common schools. 
Common humbugs ! Instead of havin' schools to larn 
the boys readin', ritin' and siferin' and such like, that 
'11 be some good to 'em, they larn 'em nateral flosity 
and watermolog}'- and sintacks, and I don't know what 
kind o' nonsense, what is no manner o' use to 'em, 'cause 
nobody understands it but them college-bred milk-sops 
that come among honest people and pertend to teach, 
and then run away with the old folkses' money, and the 
boys' brains, and the gals' hearts, and then chuckle and 
shake their bony sides over their victories. 

Proeessgr. — How absurdl3'- you talk, uncle ! Every 
one admires our superior S3^stem of education; it is one 
of our great national institutions which have won for 
us a deathless reputation among the nations of tue 
earth. Take awa}'^ our common schools, and you 
deprive us of one of the richest blessings we enjoy ; 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 115 

the very life-blood of our prosperity ; the principles for 
which our forefathers fought, and the sweet, rosy- 
cheeked maidens of seventy-six taxed their energies to 
secure. 

Seth Spriggins. — My Arcles I Maidens of seventy- 
six I Well, if ever I heard wimmen as old as that called 
maidens afore ! I wonder when yeou'd call 'em wimmen. 
When 'Squire Dorgwood, from Orange county married 
old Sall3^ Stubbs daown to Bennington, nobody called 
her a gal ; every body called her an old woman, and 
she was only seventy-tew, that was [counting his Jingtrs] 
four year younger than your maidens, tew. Her face 
was as wrinkled as a dried apple, and abeout as rosy. 

Patriot. — Astonishing I Astonishing I 1 that one of 
our free and enlightened Americans, in '62 should not 
revere the very figures that express '76, saying nothing 
of the idea of failing to recognize the plain mention of 
an era rife with so mau}"^ associations so dear, so 
thrilling, so exalting to every member of our gloiiCus 
Union. 

Poet. — 

Let her banners flutter proudly 

On every flagstaff, spire, and tower ; 
Let her statesmen discant loudly 

On her greatness, honor, power ; 
Let true hearts with ardor burning 

Strive her virtues to increase ; 
And while others war are learning 

Teach her children love and peace. 

Uncle Zeke. — Sickenin'love pieces are plenty enougu 
now, I calkelate. You can't take up a paper, nor book, 
nor nothin' without it's full of love pieces ; and afore 
children is big enough to have nateral love feelins, they 
get their heads so full of this love-r.onsense, they never 
have none of the nateral love feelins at all. The love 
them books tells about is no more like love than the 
hooped flyaways we see now-a-days is like the neat, 
pretty, slim, red-faced gals that I used to court when 
I was a young chap. 

Teacher. — Oh, Uncle ! you are getting crazy. Think- 
ing about 3'Our old courting days has bewildered you. 
We are not speaking of love pieces, but of love and 



116 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUEa. 

peace. Peace, freedom from war, rest ; not piects a 
part. 

Uncle Zeke.— Oh, dear, sus ! That's all, is it ? 

Teacher. — That's all. We know there is much trash 
published ; but we can't stop that without suppressing 
profitable literature, also ; and all we can do is to 
counteract its influence by diiFusing morality, religion, 
and science. 

Professor. — Morality and religion are the effective 
agents. Science, the root from which they derive their 
support. Science has dethroned heathenism in many 
cases. It is driving superstition before it, and will 
eventually prostrate it to rise no more. The lightning 
which our ancestors looked upon in dismay as it flashed 
from cloud to cloud, has been brought from its sublime 
throne, by the hand of science, and is now one of man's 
most useful and obedient servants. The vapor which 
arises from heated water, which, in olden times was 
looked upon only as a curiosity as it dashed the lid 
from the caldron in which it was boiling, is now the 
motive power that impels us across the ocean in splendid 
palaces, or hurls us over the country with electric 
speed. The planetary system, which was regarded with 
wonder and dread by the ancients, who worshiped its 
various members as deities, is now only a vast concourse 
of worlds rolling through the immensity of space. 
Science has done all this, and yet j^ou despise it. it is 
the centre of gravity around which our country revolves ; 
the very essence of its existence. 

Uncle Zeke. — I guess, old chap, you'll have to preach 
a longer sarmint than that afore j^ou make this old 
child believe that 'are nonsense. With all your larnin' 
I don't believe 3rou'll get one inch nearder the stars 
than I will, or stan' a flashof lightnin' a bit longer after 
it hits you. 

Patriot. — That may all be so, uncle, but don't say 
any thing more against our Union. Let us rapidly 
review her progress since she came into existence. 
Then she consisted of thirteen little stars on her flag; 
now that cluster has multiplied and increased till a fiery 
constellation of thirt3^-seven blazes amid its silken folds, 
■jesides territories almost boundless that have no repre- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 117 

sentation there. Empires may crumble ; kingdoms may 
fall ; t3'ranny spring up, flourish its little hour, and tlien 
fall to the ground ; but our republic must flourish and 
increase while time and space endure. 

Poet. — 

Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones. 

Seth. — Who knows but it was time shook aour stable 
daown ; I thought it was the wind. 

Teacher. — Not a horse stable, but the adjective 
stable, permanent, fixed. 

Seth. — Ourn wasn't a hoss-stable nor an adjective 
stable nuther ; it was the calf stable at the back end of 
the barn. There was three calves in it, and the red one 
got killed, and the spotted one got its head onjointed, 
and its tail smashed a-most off, so it died before we found 
it the next mornin'. 

Teacher. — I think there was one calf escaped that 
disastrous end, or you wouldn't he here to talk such 
nonsense. 

Seth. — Oh, yes ! The black one didn't get hurt a-bit. 

Professor. — Such ignorance as tliis individual mani- 
fests is intolerable ; unworthy the enlightenment of the 
present century. 

Seth. — Ef I ain't worthy this censure, I can dew 
vrithaout it. I don't want yeou nor your censure nuther. 

Teacher. — He isn't speaking of censuring you. 

Seth [^ayigrily']. — He did saj^ censurin', tew ; I hearn 
him. 

Teacher. — You can say it means what you like : that's 
just the way. 

Professor. — It is useless to attempt to convince the 
ignorant of any thing that is not perceptible to the 
senses; therefore 

Uncle Zeke. — Who can convince any body of any 
thing other than by their senses. If their senses isn't 
wantin' why can't you convince a dog or cat or a boss 
of any thing as well as a man. 

Professor. — By the senses we mean the faculties of 
hearing, seeing, smelling, etc. ; not intellect. 

Uncle Zeke. — I don't know what intelleck is; but I 
know neighbor Dobson's Bill could hear and see aim 



118 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

smell as well as any body, and he hadn't no sense at 
all. 

Professor. — I love to respect the aged where the 
case will admit at all : but this is too flagrant a viola- 
tion of reason to allow respect or mildness ; it is insuf- 
ferable. 
Poet. — 

Concealed within the marble block 

The polished statiie stands ; 
Yet only issues from the rock 

Beneath the sculptor's hands; 
Just so the mind, the living mind, 

Hidden in darkness lay; 
No light burst from its powers, confined. 
Till education cleared the way. 

Seth. — Haow mighty knowin' you think you be ! 
That rhymin' ain't nothin'. I can make better varses 
than them by a jug full. I know some a good 'eal better 
than that feller's. 

Professor. — Please recite them. 

Seth. — There ain't a sight of them ; only tew. 

Professor. — Say them then. Do you understand that? 

Seth. — Yes, easy 1 Well, listen 

I went daown to Cap'n Blake's 
And there I seen his darter : 
I never seen a prettier gal, 

Or one what acted smarter. 
Her eyes is like two lightnin' bugs, 

Her lips like lemon candy ; 
Her cheeks is lilie a robin's breast. 
And ear-rings, aint they dandy ? 
Professor. — Well done ! You seem to possess some 
faculties notwithstanding. Quite a poet. 

Seth. — I don't know whether I've got any or not. 
I've got a good many things in my trunk; I guess 
there's some amongst 'em. 

Professor. — What a paragon of ignorance ; and yet 
that iudividual is under the influence of the tender pas- 
sion, judging from his poetic eftusions, and probably 
contemplates entering into matrimony. 
Seth. — What sort of money ? 

Professor. — Yes I say you probably contemplate 
eatering into matrimony. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 119 

Sei'H. — I daon't know exactly, but I guess I'd take 
any thing that would f ass. I wonder if a hody'd let 
me have a chance to earn it. 

Teacher. — Were j^ou ever at school, sir ? 

Seth. — Oh, yes ! I went to school three afternoons, 
but the first the master wasn't there, and the next he 
was drunk, and the last he kept talkin' to Kate Robbius, 
and didn't larn us nothin'. 

Uncle Zeke. — Well, I went to school a good 'eal 
when I was a boy. I went three winters day-times, and 
one, evenin', too ; and I guess that was a school. There 
was no jimnastiums and excesses there; none of 3'our 
new-fashioned fooleries. If the boys didn't behave, 
they got the ferrel ; and if the gals didn't carry 'em- 
selves straight, they had to stan' upon the bench till 
they felt cheap, I tell you. 

Teacher. — And that was the school system you 
admire. What branches did you learn ? 

Uncle Zeke. — We larned readin' and ritin' and 
siferin'; and that was plenty for common folks to know. 
Ministers ort to know a little more so as to expound 
the scriptures a little ; but for boys to larn big words 
and high branches, and the gals to larn drawin, paintin', 
music, thumpin' the pianour, and pinchin' the guitar, 
instead of spinnin', weavin', nittin' stockings and makin' 
close, is the ruination of all of 'em ; and when the people 
is ruined, the nation is ruined, brag on it as you please. 

Professor. — The use of machinery has superseded 
the old-fashioned spinning-wheel and hand loom ; they 
are only relics of by-gone days. The day is fast ap- 
proaching when the buzz of the spinning-wheel, and the 
clatter of the loom shall be heard no more in our land 
for ever. The piano and guitar have taken their places, 
and our maidens may learn music, and our sons science, 
while steam performs the labor they formerly were 
obliged to do. 

Teacher. — The Lyceum is now about to go into 
session, gentlemen. Please step into the next room. 
[Exit all but Uncle Zeke.'] 

Uncle Zeke. — Jes so, Mr. School-master, but if 
yeou'll wait till I see em in their precious mess of torn- 



120 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



flumpei'}' yeou'll wait till yeou're graj^er than yeou neow 
be. \_Exit Uncle Zeke, calling to John to drive around 
the team. Noise, as if the old gentleman was climbing 
into an ox-cart, and the oxen restless.'] 



THE SPELLING CLASS. 

fThis piece can be spoken by either sex, or by both, Dy 
changing names. A large boy or girl should be selected 
as teacher.] 

PUPILS. 



JODN. 


Samuel. 


Michael. 


James. 


Daniel. 


JOSIAH. 


William. 


Joseph. 


Caleb. 


Peter. 


Henry. 


Patrick. 



Scene 1. — Pupils playing on the stage ivhen the 
curtain rises. 

Teacher. — Now, boys, I want you to form into a 
class, and spell the lesson I assigned you. 

All the Boys. — Yes, ma'am. 

Teacher. — Peter, you may go to the head of the class 
this evening. 

Michael. — Teacher, Pat Flannigan's head. He trap- 
ped Jim Barnhill last evening. 

Caleb. — No, Pat Flannigan's not head though ; I'nj 
head, I guess. I trapped Pat at the word conglomerate 
didn't I, Josie ? 

JosTAH [slowly']. — I don't know, I wasn't in school 
yesterday. 

William. — Teacher, I was third last evening, and 
now Joe Davis won't let me in my place. 

Teacher. — Joseph, let William in his place. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 121 

Henry. — Well, I wasn't foot, either, when we spelt 
last, for I marked my number on this paper, and I was 
fourteenth. [^Holding up the paper.'] 

Teacher [^counting the class']. — Why, you are twelfth 
now, and last evening you say you were fourteenth. 

Henry. — Well, but I wasn't foot. 

John. — Please, ma'am, Dan Lutz is pinching me. 

Teacher. — Daniel, walk to the foot of the class. 

Peter. — Teacher, shall I go head ? 

Teacher. — Yes, I told you to go there when I called 
the class up, didn't I ? 

Peter. — Yes, ma'am. 

Caleb [^as if crying]. — It's not fair. I was head. 

Teacher [holding up a stick]. — Quiet, now, or you'll 
get a good flogging. 

James. — Please, teacher, Sam Snodgrass is standing 
on one foot. 

Teacher. — Samuel, stand erect. The class will all 
pay strict attention. Peter, where is the lesson for this 
evening ? 

Peter. — On page forty-nine, lesson fourth, section 
seventeenth. 

Joseph. — John Barnhill told me, that we were to get 
the last section on i)age forty-eight. 

Samuel. — And Dan Lutz told me that Bill Smith 
told him that we were to get the first two sections on 
page fifty. He said that Josie Lichtenberger heard the 
teacher say so. 

Teacher. — Did you hear me saying so, Josiah ? 

JosiAH [^slowly]. — No, ma'am, 1 wasn't in school yes- 
terday. 

Teacher. — Joseph Davis has the right place. He 
will go to the head of the class, and Peter may take his 
place at the other end of the class. 

Henry. — Why ! I'll be ahead after awhile, if them 
fellers keeps coming down here much more. 

Teacher. — Quiet, there. Attention all. Joseph, spell 
Jie first word. 

Joseph. — Teacher, I don't know what the first word is. 

Teacher. — Well, if you only have a little patience I 
will pronounce it for you. 

Caleb \'hand up] — I know what the first word is 



122 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — You keep quiet, until j^ou are called upou 
to speak. The first word is commutation. Spell, Jo- 
seph. 

Joseph. — C-o-m, com, y-o-u, you, comyou, — 

Teacher. — Next. 

William [^drawling']. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, commu, 
t-a, ta, commuta, s-h-i-o-n, shun, commutation. 

Teacher. — William, you must get your lesson better 
the next time. 

William. — Please, ma'am, I have no book. Some- 
body stepped on it, and the skin came off. 

Teacher. — The cover, you mean, don't you ? 

William. — No, ma'am, I mean the outside of the 
book, the skin. 

Teacher. — Well, what did yon do with the inside of 
the book ? 

William. — Why, it looked so ugly, that one evening 
last week, as 1 went home, I threw it into the creek 
down there. 

Teacher. — You deserve a good whipping; but we 
must continue the spelling. Patrick, you s.pell ? 

Patrick. — Plase, mar'm and I don't know the 
w-u-r-r-d. 

Teacher. — James, spell. 

James. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, t-a, ta, t-i-o-n, tion, 
commutation. 

Teacher. — That is right ; go up. 

James [^goes up and William trips hirri]. — Teacher, 
Bill Smith tried to throw me down. 

Teacher. — William, you will take your seat. John, 
do you spell the next word, molasses. 

John. — M-o, mo, [_smacks his lips'] m-o, mo, l_smacks 
them still louder'] m-o-l-e, mole [still smacking.] 

Teacher. — What is the matter ? 

John. — I can't spell that word ; it's too sweet. 

Teacher. — Josiah, you can spell it. 

JoiSiAH \_whose head has been turned in an opposite di- 
rection, now faces the teacher, and spells slowly]. — S-u, 
su, g-a-r, gar, sugar. 

Teacher. — That is not the word. 

JosiAH [slowly]. — Why, John said it was so uweet he 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 123 

could not possibly spell it, and I thought he meant 
sugar. 

Teacher. — I don't believe you are paying attention. 

Caleb. — Teacher, I know how to spell the word. 

Teacher. — Spell it, then. 

Caleb [_uery earnesf]. — C-a-n, can, d-y, dy, candy. [Be 
goes lip.'] 

Teacher. — Hold on; that is not the word. Go back 
to your place. You all deserve to be punished severely 
for your neglect in preparing this lesson, and your indif- 
ference in the recitation. Let me hear you define a few 
words. Henry, what is the meaning of the word exter- 
minate ? 

Henry. — Exterminate, means that natural reflection 
subsiduary upon longitudinal molusc, when the conspi- 
cuous generality of ideas, encompass the plausibility 
consequent upon the gelatinous machinations of pneu- 
matics, during the precise admonitions of an avaricious 
duadecagOD : or, in other words, the incomprehensible 
gyrations of antiquated logar3'thms, when in a state of 
lubricating gymnastics, produced from the exhilarating 
effervescence of hydraulic aspirations, flowing from the 
ambiguous castigations in the colossal amphitheatre of 
redundant asseverations, while renewing the categorical 
receptacles of an ignited concatenation. 

Teacher. — "Very well done, Henry ; I am pleased to 
see that you studied the lesson so well. 

Michael. — Teacher, I don't exactly understand about 
that avaricious duodecagon. 

Teacher. — Henry, please explain those words for the 
satisfaction of the class. 

Henry. — Why, an avaricious duodecagon, simply 
means a black spotted cat with a iong white tail. 

Teacher. — Now, Samuel, brighten up, and give me a 
short definition of the word procrastination. 

Samuel. — Well, the literal meaning is systematically 
that phenomena of auxiliary conceptions, which by their 
egotistical perplexities affiliate with the aromatic plausi- 
bilities of an analytical stove-pipe, that has for its ori- 
gin the unavoidable periphery by which it is metamor- 
phosed into an exaggerated chrysalis of oleaginouiS in- 
visibility 



124 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — That is excellent. I knew there was some- 
thing in you, if only the rigJit method was taken to 
extract it. The audience wJl readily see the import- 
ance of pupils being thoroughly conversant with Ian 
guage, so that they will be able at all times to dissemi 
nate that light among those around them, which shoukl 
characterize the enlightened era in which we live. iSow, 
boys, we will close the lesson for the present, hoping 
that you are all more sensibly impressed with your 
duties. Continue in the course you have commenced, 
and you will become great men and women. 
[Boys leave in confusion.'] 



THE TWO TEACHERS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Clara, a faithful teacher, who loves the employment. 
Ltzzie, one who dislikes teaching. 

Scene. A School-room. Clara stands by a desk read- 
ing, while a group of Utile ones are preparing to 
leave. Before they go, they take an affectionate leave 
of the Teacher. 

[Lizzie enters hastily, as if she had been walking a 

long distance.'] 

Clara [starting foricard]. — Why, good afternoon, 
Lizzie! Your school must have l)een out early; for 
now it is only half past four, and you teach four miles 
away. I expected you to-night, but not so soon. 

Lizzie. — I dismissed school a little after three. There ' 
you needn't look so terrified ! I guess the scholars 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 125 

were glad enough to get away. I am sure I v/as 1 
Oh ! it did seem so good to get out in the pure, fresh 
air, away from the noise of the children. But come, 
Clara, let us dismiss such dismal things as school, 
scholars, and teaching, from our minds. Let us "drive 
dull carr away" with jong. \_Taking a singing book 
and sitting doion.'] Dear me, I'm so tired ! I am glad 
there's no school to-morrow ! Let us sing, " Rain on 
the Roof." You sing alto and I will soprano ^sounding 
key']. 

Clara \Jialf impatiently']. — No, not now, Lizzie, 
please ; I want to talk a little while. 

Lizzie. — Well, my dear, I suppose you are going 
to lecture me. Proceed! I'll bear all your good talk 
with the patience of a martyr. \_Folding her hands 
demurely.] 

Clara [_soherly,] — By what you said of your glad- 
ness to get from school, etc. etc., I am afraid \liesi- 
ta.ting]. To come to the point, Lizzie, do you like 
to teach school? 

\_The mischievous smile died out of Lizzie'' s face, as 
she arose quickly and said in a hurried tone :] 

Lizzie. — Like to teach school? What a question ! 
Clara, did you, could you, think I did? \_S2oeaking 
slowly j Ask the little bird, that carols its free, joyous 
song on the tall tree, free to act at its own sweet will, 
ask it if it likes its prison cage as well as its covert of 
green leaves. Ask the babbling brook, which wends its 
wa_y, singing merrily as it goes, if when imprisoned in 
the still pond, its poor, suffering heart does not long to 
break its prison bonds and go on its way, rejoicing in 
its wild freedom. Ask the little child, sporting among 
the clover blossoms and singing birds, if it enjoys the 
close walls of home as well as the green and flowery 
fields. I, who love freedom so dearly, and love, oh ! so 
well, to Tnase over the lettered page, and forget the \)Xis.y, 
bustlinp- vrorld — how can I be content lo ttajh school? 
\G~'owi>''i excited.] To be imprisoned in a low, dingy, 



126 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

dirty school-room, shut out from all that is bcautifui 
and pleasant, and have to teach mischievous little 
witches how to read, write, and spell ! 

Clara [speaking smyrised']. — Why, Lizzie, how you 
talk! I am perfectly surprised; calm yourself, do ! 

Lizzie. — Well, you may be surprised, but it is so I 
mean just what I say. What is there pleasant about it ? 
Where, in the name of common sense, are the charms ? 
And then the boarding around [contemptuously'], I de- 
clare, it makes me sick ! 

Clara [smiling']. — A strong case, truly. Indeed ! 
you are quite a lav»ryer. I am sorry to say, that I believe 
you are in earnest, by the way j^our e3'^es glow and burn. 
Thei'e is a dark side to every picture. You knew^ this 
before : why then did yo-a teach ? 

Lizzie. — Why, did you say ? Why ? Why does Siwy 
one teach ? To earn money, of course. If it were not 
for that, do you think I'd staj^ one week longer? 

Clara. — You have much to discourage you ; so has 
every teacher. But, I hope, before long, the people will 
awake from their lethargy, and begin to act. vVlready a 
light has been kindled on the Hill of Science by a few, 
faithful, true, noble souls, and soon the beacor ra^^s will 
light adown the hill, into the valley below-. Tnen there 
will be more interest manifest ; we will have pleasanter 
school-rooms, and more encouragement. I am sorry your 
main object in teaching is to earn money. Although we 
could not afford to teach without recompense, yet this 
should not be the main object ; but oh ! I fear it is with 
many. 

Lizzie [scornfully']. — What then should it be ? 

Clara. — Our reward consists not merely in dollars 
and cents, and not alone in an approving conscience, 
but in the pleasant smile, and the lighting of little 
faces at our coming, if we have done our duty and 
made our school-room attractive. 

Lizzie. — How can I make my old, dingy school-room 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 127 

attractive ? I guess it would need considerable re- 
modeling. 

Clara. — Not merely, my dear, in adorning it with 
flowers, evergreens, pictures and mottoes to gratify, 
please, and instruct the children ; but in your kind 
smile, and heartfelt sympathy, and interest in their 
studies, sports, joys, and sorrows. Oh ! Lizzie, the 
mission of the teacher is a great and holy one, and 
woe to those who attempt it thoughtlessly. Their 
prayer ought dail}^ to rise to him who is ready to 
help, for strength to rightly perform their numerous 
duties. They have immortal minds to sway. The in- 
fluence and example of a teacher are remembered for 
ages, aye, through all eternity. 

Lizzie. — Thank you, for your words, Clara. I have 
never thought of the subject in that light before. 

Clara. — Oh ! Lizzie, may 3'ou often think of it care- 
fully, soberly, and msij success crown all your rightly' 
directed efforts! But come, let us go to Mrs. Addison's. 
Supper and Lucj^ will be waiting for us [_smih'ng'] : and 
you dislike school-room and confinement so, I ought not 
to have kept j^ou here so long. 

[ They go out together.'] 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 

Scene. — A Poet — a hoy in plain clothing seated at a table, 
leaning his head on his hands — pen, ink, and paper 
before him. 

Poet. — Write, write, write; I must write a poem, for 
thoughts come thick and fast. But why should I write ? 
Memorj is a haunting ghost I would fain have laid for 



128 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ever. Hope is a delusive phantom I have parted with 
for the last time. " Hope and Memory, ye were once fair, 
but are nothing to me now !" \_His head sinks lower, 
and he seems to sleep.'] 

[^Enter Hope and 3Iemory. " Hope in a white dress 

with a wreath of white buds in her hair, and a 

bouquet of half bloum flowers in her hand. 

Memory in dress of gray or drab barege, with a 

scaif of dark blue material thrown over her head, 

half shadowing her face ; in her hand a bouquet 

of full blown roses and withering leaves. Memory 

turning to Hope, says .-] 

Memory. — Oh, my sister, look at him wrapt in deep 

thought or gentle slumber I He feels my influence and 

knows it not. [She waves her flowers over him, ex- 

f^uiming ;] 

" Float, sweet odors, about his brow, 
And beautiful be his visions now." 
[_Hope makes a gesture for Memory to stand aside, 
approaches the Poet, and waves her flowers over 
him and says :] 

" Awaken, brother, and fix your gaze 
Where flowers unclose when sunshine plays." 
Poet [starting up]. — Who are 3^e that come into my 
presence thus, with your sweet picture-like faces, and 
voices like those I have heard in dreams ? Speak and 
tell me ! 

Memory. — One who loves you — who watches by your 
pillow through the still night-watches, who is with you 
in that shadowy border land between sleeping and wak- 
ing, whose hand points ever away, away to the sweet 
evening times of long ago ; one who leads you away 
from the present along the fair, bright tracks where ail 
is lovely. 

Hope [drawing nearer'].- — One whose smile beams 
upon 5"ou unceasingly, whose hand beckons 3'ou on 
where a sweet May-like atmosphere enspheres gardens 
of loveliness. There flowers fade not — there no dark 
clouds hover — there the spirit floats upward with the 
song of the lark — there even the midnight is glorious 
with stars. You have no friend like me ? 

Poet. — Bjgone, begone ! yon smile to deceive me 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 129 

oh, Hope I You show me the past, oh, Memory, only 
to make ray present more bitter 1 Away, I have clone 
with you both I 

Hope. — Oh, hear me ! To-morrow 

Poet. — 'I ell me not of to-morrow. To-morrow never 
comes 1 

Hope. — But to-morrow is always just before you. 
Memory. — And j^esterda^^ ever near. Oh, the many, 
many beautiful yesterdays I have to show you, lovelier 
now than when they passed away. 

Poet. — They passed away — Oh, sorrowful echo, — tliey 
passed away ! 

Memory. — But thou hast kept their smiles, their 
bright beaming smiles, and all the fresh lips and cheeks 
with their glow unfaded, and such sunshiny hair, and 
eyes with their love-light more tender than of old. 
Thou would st not lose all these ? 
Poet. — I have lost all these. 

Memory. — Nay, not so ; they are now more near thee. 
Time and space can no longer divide ; they come in a 
moment. 

Poet. — Their shadows come. 

Memory. — But how real ! They were once thine. 
They are thine for ever. Flesh or spirit, the same. 
They are still thine. 

Poet. — I would I could forget ! 

Hope. — Listen to me, look toward the future. How 
bright, oh ! how bright ! 

Poet. — I wish not to look there. Thou canst show 
me nothing now. I know thee too well. 

Hope. — Oh ! think of the green fields, the fresh winds, 
the unfolding flowers, the springing grass — all things 
full of glad life. The songs of birds as they build their 
nests, the laugb^^er of children as they play along sunny 
lanes and in green lields. 

Memory. — There are fair forms and sweet faces, 
welcoming voices, and hands kindly extended for thee, 
sunshine to gild, showers to refresh, and over alia rain- 
bo \y. 

Poet. — Hush, hush, hush ! [_He sinks down in a chair, 
■ akes a pen, and writes.'] 

Hope [^turning to Memory~\. — What can we do for 
9 



130 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

him ? I have been his ever true friend. I showed hiia 
t]je same pictures long ago that thou showest him now. 
Thou knowest all thy yesterdays were once my to-mor- 
rows. 

Memory. — Aye, sweet sister, 'tis so ; and this poet is 
our special care. What strange whim has seized hiin 
that he would discard us both ? 

Hope. — It is with to-day he is dissatisfied. I showed 
him all while it lay in the future, and he chose it then, 
calling it fair — very fair. 

Memory [laughing']. — See, sister ! see, he writes. Oh 1 
I have such a curiosity to see a poem where neither 
thou nor I shall be inwoven. 

Hope. — Be quiet. He has walked abroad in this to 
day, and has written of it now, doubtless. 

[Foet, with an earnest face, thinking himself alone, 
reads his poem.] 

THE READERS. 
The maiden read the spring time's idyl through, 
Each day's fresh page a fairer picture showing, 
Flower-clustered branches, and nest-building birds 

And cloiids in the blue sky with rose light glowing ; 
The rivulets ripple over mossy stones, 

And what the winds told to the listening leaves 
"When the dew touched them, and when moonlight brought 

The sweetest dream of heaven earth e'er receives — 
The violet's passionate, pure prayer of love — 

I'hrilled her lieart's chords ; its sinless worshipper. 
The arbatus, fair as light, and bright as life. 

Its Eden memories told again to hev. 
Yet scarcely smiled she all the while, 

Her heart was yearning toward a far-off grave, 
Where slept her soldier youth — bitter thought ! 
'J'hese flowers he loved so may not deck his grave. 
[iZe pauses, clasps his hands, and sighs. Hope and 
Memory aside.] 
Hope. — 1 am there, and my dear poet has forgotten it. 
Memory. — And I. How blind he is ! but he proceer'.s. 
Listen to the second verse ; see if we are exiled from 
it. \_Poet jDroceeds.] 

The mother read the sweet-rhymed poem, 

How royally rich was every page she turned ! 
The rose was crimson with the hue of triumph, 
The stars above as freedom's watch-fires burned. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 131 

JBut summer winds were sighinar, ever sighing ; 

Anil bead-like dew-drops rosaries were of tears, 
For 'I'ennessee's soft winds and low-toned waters 

Blend dirge-like in the strain her spirit hears. 
There, far away, he sleeps, her gallant darling, 

Her hope, her pride, her bravest and her best — 
Her blue-eyed first-born hushed to sleep so fondly, 

It seems but yesterday night, upon her breast. 

Hope. — We were both there 1 

Memory. — Yes, hand in hand ! 

Hope. — What would that mother's heart be without 
me? I show her country's future ! 

Memory. — And how could she spare me ? I still give 
her back her darling as I can, either as a babe or as a 
hero, beautiful, oh, how beautiful ! 

Hope. — I point upward toward him, too — lead her 
even into the glorified presence of the gentle, brave- 
hearted boy, who learned how sweet it was to die for 
one's country, ere his sun had journeyed half way to its 
noon. But listen 1 [_Poet reads on.'] 

And one in manhood's prime read the proud antiiem 

Of autumn, ah I the tale was fitly told ! 
Of the bright mission in the laden orchards 

When fruit and leaves of bronze and red and gold 
Made pretty pictures under the fair heavens, 

That through the Indian summer atmosphere 
Smiled on the earth so fond ; the soul upreaches 

To meet the angels, for they seem so near ; 
And 'midst those angels one is crowned with laurel ; — 

That soldier son in Gettysburg that fell, 
And autumn winds sigh softly, " It is finished ;" 

And that fair angel whispers, "It is well !" 

\_He pauses."] 

Memory. — Ah. I how much of that is of me 1 

Hope. — How much is of me ! 

Memory. — My voice is in the autumn wind that whis- 
pers "It is finished I" 

Hope. — And mine is in the angel whisper " It is 
well." 

Memory. — And yet he knows not that I am with him 
•ever. 

Hope. — And dreams that he has bidden me farewell 



132 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Hope and Memory [together]. — Listen 1 [Poet pro- 
ceeds.'} 
O'er the calm-worded eulogy of winter 

The gray-haired grandsire bent with earnest eye ; 
And one by one, like snow-flakes floating, floating, 

Came thoughts of how lo live and how to die. 
Oh, Life, of tiiee the thoughts were real, earnest; 

Oh, Death, of thee the thoughts were calm and high; 
Life's end and aim the Truth, our God, oiir Country, 

Death but the entrance to eternity. 

Hope to Memory. — Oh, sister, there we softly blend 
together I 

Memory to the Poet. — Oh, Poet, call us each again 
yonr friend 1 

Poet [advancing and clasping a hand of each']. — Oh, 
yes, for ever, ever, and for ever, let your sweet smilea 
upon my pathway blend 1 



A CONTENTIOUS COMMUNITY. 

Scene. — A country school-house, in which all the voters 
of the district have assembled to discuss some interest- 
ing topic relating to school matters. 

School Director. — Will some of the gentlemen who 
iave been pleased to call this meeting, be kind enough 
to state to us its object ? 

^airplay. — Mr. Merrysoul, Brother Orthodox, and 
m3"self signed the notice calling this meeting, in behalf 
of our singing master, who is desirous of openuig a 
school among us this winter; as the gentleman is pre- 
sent, perha])S he had better speak for himself 

Music Teacher. — I have been desired to teach a class 
in vocal music, in this neighborhood ; and the school- 
house being the usual place of assembly, as well as the 
most convenient and central room, 1 applied to the 
director to obtain the use of the house, and was denied 
it. Knowing this to be contrary to the wishes of the 
community, a number of my 3'oung friends have united 
with me in requesting these gentlemen to call a meet- 



SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 133 

iiig to ascertain the opinion of the majority upon the 
subject. 

School Director. — In refusing the use of the house 
for this purpose, I not only acted in accordance with 
my own convictions of right, but followed the advice of 
several of our oldest citizens, who think with me, that 
the school-house should be used for school purposes only. 

Fairplay. — This school-house, Mr. Chairman, was 
built by the community here for the accommodation 
of the wants and necessities of the neighborhood. It 
has been our custom from time immemorial to hold not 
only day school, but Sunday school, singing school, and 
religious worship in the house; and I can see no reason 
why a few persons should now seek to deprive us of our 
long-established right. 

School Director. — The long prevalence of a custom 
does not, in my opinion, prove it to be right. We have 
used the school-house long enough for such purposes ; 
it is time now to build another house to hold meetings 
in, and take care of our school-house for the use of the 
children. 

Orthodox. — That is just what we wanted to do last 
summer, when we presented a subscription paper to you, 
Mr. Chairman, and you refused to sign a cent. 

School Director. — The house you proposed to build 
did not suit my taste. It was not expensive enough. 

Merrysoul. — I believe Brother Orthodox, in his plan, 
was trj'ing to cut his coat according to his cloth ; he 
knew it would be impossilile to raise money enough to 
build a cathedral, and so he proposed to put up a plain 
church. 

Wideawake. — The church Brother Orthodox pro- 
posed building was a frame, I believe ; perhaps that 
was one reason why our worthy director did not like it, 
as he is the owner of that extensive brick-yard over 
yonder. However, the church is not built yet, and we 
want to have singing school this winter; and I, for one, 
am in favor of having it in the school-house. 

Orthodox. — If I understand our worthy director 
aright, he would like also to exclude us from using the 
house for religious worship ? 



134 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

School Director. — I am opposed even to having 
preaching in the school-house. 

Hardshell. — I don't mind having preaching in the 
liouse provided the right kind of preachers are invited 
to preach there. 

Merrysoul. — I am not a member of any church; but 
for my part, I can not see why one denomination should 
be allowed the use of the house and not another. AVe 
all helped to build it, and I can not see why it should 
not be free for every denomination, and for singing 
school, too, as long as the propertj^ is well cared for. 

Hardshell. — Well, if it came to excluding all or ex- 
cluding none, I would allow preachers whose doctrines I 
did not approve to use the house, rather than have our 
preachers shut out from it. But this thing of singing 
schools I don't like. I shall not vote for our school- 
house being used for it ; nor will I allow my children to 
attend if these youngsters succeed in getting it up. 

Merrysoul. — Why, Brother Hardshell, you seem to 
forget that David says, " Make a joyful noise unto the 
3 ord." David was verj'^ fond of singing, and recom- 
uiends it highly to all Christians. 

Music Teacher. — I can not conceive why Brother 
Hardshell is so opposed to young folks learning to sing. 
It is, I am sure, a healthful exercise and a pleasant 
pastime. A good singing school has a favorable influ- 
ence on the morals of a communit3^ 

Hardshell. — I never learned to sing notes, and my 
children shan't. It will only make them inattentive to 
their books at school ; and while I am losing their time 
from work to allow them to go to school three months 
in the 3'ear, I can not afford to have them waste their 
time, and divert their mind from their other studies. 

School Director. — I reckon Brother Hardshell 
thinks that it would make the boys and girls lazy, and 
might create a desire to waste their mornings and even- 
ings. If I mistake not, his childreu have to toe the 
scratch pretty close. 

Hardshell. — That's so, gentlemen ; if anybody lives 
with me they have to go to work, and no mistake. If I 
give my bo^^s six hours out of the best of every day to 
ZC to school, they must work the harder between times 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 135 

and on Saturdays to pay for it, or I wont get my 
share of work out of them afore they are twenty-one. 

TiGHTFiST. — Mr. Chairman, this is a digression. We 
had better proceed to tlie business on hand. I am much 
opposed to having another singing school in the house 
this winter, because they use up the wood we liave to 
supply for the day school. 

Music Teacher. — I would say a word here, Mr. 
Chairman, if you please. If I remember rightly, our 
singing class furnished a cord of wood last winter, and 
onl^^ met three times before the weather set in so bad 
that we thought best to adjourn until the roads had 
settled a little. When we commenced the school again, 
our wood-pile had disappeared ; but, as it was warm 
enough to do without a fire, the class made no com- 
plaint about the matter. If we have the use of the 
house this winter, we expect to fui*nish all the wood we 
burn. 

TiGHTFiST. — Besides this, Mr. Chairman, our benches 
were all badly broken up last winter, and, as they have 
been replaced by new ones, I am opposed to admitting 
these singers into the house again. 

Merrysoul. — I happen to know something about 
that, Mr. Chairman ; for on several occasions I had to 
bring some nails and a hammer to repair the benches 
broken by the children during the day, before we could 
accommodate our class at singing school. The carpen- 
ter that Mr. Tightflst employed to fit up our school 
benches last year, did a very poor job, and the children 
soon found out its weakness. 

MuLEBRAiN. — I don't like these musical gatherings. 
They always keep up such a singing that I can't go to 
sleep of a night for them ; and my wife says that they 
keep her and the baby awake, too. 

Obstinate. — I am of Mr. Mulebrain's opinion ; for I 
have been at his house more than once when they had 
singing over here ; and, though they did not care to go 
to sleep as early when they had visitors, I don't think 
these singers have any right to be disturbing the quiet 
of the neighborhood by singing sc«hools, two or three 
times every week. 

Faieplay. — The truth of the matter seems to be this : 



136 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

there are a few individuals in the neighborhood who are 
opposed to singing scliools, and they wish to make all 
the rest of us knuckle down to tliem. 

School Director. — The chief object of singing schools 
seems to be to gather the youngsters together for fun 
and social chit-chat. 

Hardshell. — And to try their horses in going to and 
from the meetings. 

Wideawake. — Perhaps Brother ITardshell forgets 
how natural it was for him to ride in a trot when he was 
young; but one would hardly think that as long as he 
limps along with that cane in his hand he would, forget 
some of his later sprees. 

Hardshell. — Now, friend Wideawake, you must not 
be too severe with an old man if he should be indiscreet 
enough to crack a whip as thoughtlessly while driving 
a pair of fractious colts as a 3-oke of sober oxen. 

Orthodox. — We must not be too hard, my friends, 
on Brother Hardshell. We aJl know that there was a 
reason for that runawa}^ scrape ; and I hope that our 
brother will profit by the narrow escape he had and let 
"OM Tanglelega''^ alone hereafter. 

Hardshell. — Brother Orthodox touches a tender 
point there. I have always been used to having a drop 
at raisinji'S and log rollings; and I don't think we could 
get along without it. JViereover, we have Paul's advice 
to take a little " for our stomach's sake and for our oft 
infirmities," and the Lord knows 1 have infirmities 
enough. 

School Director. — Gentlemen, you are digressing 
again. Please return to the matter under considera- 
tion. 

Tightfist. — I think, at least, the law should be taken 
to prevent these youngsters from riding along the road 
in groups and frightening and running over people's 
cattle. They almost ruined a heifer for me last summer. 

Fairplay. — I think it would be well if the law would 
take hold of men who have hundred-acre farms, and 3'et 
make a barn-yard of the public highway ; not only ob- 
structing it, but endangering the lives of peaceable citi- 
zens who may be riding by on a gentle trot, while some 
sillj' calf takes it into its head to -^ross the road immedi- 



SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 137 

atf ly in front of the rider, as cows and calves invariably 
do when suddenly startled by the quick movement of a 
horse. If I mistake not, a steady, inoffensive lad almost 
broke his neck over the heifer referred to. 

Orthodox. — Wh}'', bless me, gentlemen, here we are 
off at a tangent again. Be calm, gentlemen. Pon't let 
us get too warm. I think, perhaps, we had better de- 
cide the matter by a vote, without wasting more time 
about it. 

Several Yotces. — Question ! — Question ! — Question ! 

School Director. — There is no motion before us, 
gentlemen. 

Fairplay. — Mr. Chairman, I move that we grant this 
gentleman the privilege of teaching singing school in 
the school house, provided the school furnishes its own 
firewood and takes care of the property. 

Merrysoul. — I second that motion. 

School Director. — Gentlemen, 3'ou have heard the 
motion. Those in favor of singing school being kept 
here, will please signifj' it by rising to their feet. 

[Twelve voters rise to their feet.'] 

School Director. — Those of the contrary opinion, 
please rise. 

[Seven voters rise."] 

School Director. — The yeas have it. 

Hardshell. — I thought it required a two-third vote 
to carry such questions. 

School Director. — The majority rules. 

Tigiitfist. — 1 want to know who is to be responsible 
for the care of the house. 

"Music Teacher. — The one who has charge of the 
singing school will be responsible for the proper and 
careful use of the house and its furniture during the 
singing school. 

TiGHTFiST. — The director must demand security. 
Let him give security, and he can have the house. 

Fairplay and Merrysoul [both together]. — 1 will go 
his security 

Hardshell. — I think, Mr. Chairman, that it is a great 
pity that old and respectable citizens like us. should be 



138 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

thus trampled upon by these young upstarts, I intend 
to lay this matter before the School Commissioner, and 
I, for one, protest against your giving up the key for 
this purpose. 

TiGHTFiST. — I also enter my protest, and more than 
this, Mr. Obstinate, Mr. Mulebrain, and myself, intend 
to form ourselves into a committee of three, to see that 
this thing does not go on — peaceably, at any rate. 

Several Voices. — If the minority intended to rule, 
why did you. not tell us so before you put the thing to 
a vote ? 

Wideawake. — Come, come, gentlemen, this will never 
do. We will soon come to blows at this rate. If we 
can not have peaceable possession of the house, we will 
not have it at all. My best room is open to you, Mr. 
Music Teacher ; and, indeed, ray whole house, if it is 
needed. I shall take great pleasure in listening to and 
joining in your melodies. 

School Director. — If there is no other business 
before the meeting, we may as well consider ourselves 
dismissed. 

[^Exeunt Omnes.'] 



LOST AND FOUND. 



Father. — Here, Jennie, is a nice hood I found on 
^ifth Avenue ; is it not one of the best sort ? 

Jennie. — Certainly it is ; but who could have lost it ? 

Father. — I suppose we will likely find an owner ; but 
isn't it strange that any one would lose a hood ? 

Jennie. — Was it not rolled up ? 

Father. — No. 

Jennie. — Well, father, you knov/it has been warm of 
late, and I suppose the lady has taken it off her head 
and been carrying it under her arm. 

Father. — Well, Jennie, take care of it, and I think I 
will advertise it. 

Jennie. — Why, father, I should think the owner would 
lio thgt. 



SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 139 

Father. — Well, search the papers ; peAaps it is al- 
ready in. I must go to 1113' shop. 

[Father goes off. Jennie get?, a paper. Ente'i 
Miss Midweil.'] 

Jennie. — How do you do, Miss Midweil ? 

Miss MiDWELL. — Well, thank you. Are you reading 
the paper ? 

Jennie. — Yes ; I just took it up. 

Miss Midwell. — Well, I will not hinder you. I just 
called to tell yon Anna Wilkin wi.shes you to go and 
see her at her uncle's. 

Jennie. — Well ! I hope I shall be able to do so. She 
is a noble looking lady, though I feel rather bashful in 
her presence, they are so rich. 

Miss Midwell. — Oh, Jennie ! don't think of the 
wealth of a person, when she is kind and sociable. 

Jennie. — Perhaps I should not ; but I wish I had a 
nice hood to wear. 

Miss Mid^vell — Oh ! we were down at Hunter's store 
the other day, and they have such beautiful ones. 
Mother could not resist the temptation, and bought one 
for Lettie. You can suit yourself there, certainly ; but 
good-by, I am talking so long. 

\_Miss Midwell leaves, and father enters.'] 

Father. — Any advertisement of that hood, yet? 

Jennie. — None that answers this one. I sent for the 
other papers ; the same advertisement is in them all, but 
does not mention Fifth Avenue. 

Father — I am very desirous the owner should have 
it. 

Jennie. — Yes. But since there is no owner appears, 
sufDpose I wear it. Anna Wilkin sent for me to vist 
her at her uncle's, and I can't think of wearing my old 
one there. 

Father. — Put it on, Jennie, and let me see it. Is it 
a handsome one ? 

Jennie. — Oh! very. 

Father. — Is it not too handsome for you to wear? 
You know, Jennie, that I am not rich. You do not 
know that I am in debt, and it thei*efore would not be 
proper for you to wea" an expensive article 



140 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Jennie. — People will think it is a present. 

Father. — Even that I should not like. We should 
dress according to our circumstances. 

Jennie. — A great many people, no richer than we are, 
wear very nice hoods. 

Father. — I am very sure, Jennie, that no one whose 
good opinion is of any value, would think better of you 
for dressing expensively. This striving to imitate others 
is no mark of a dignified person. 

Jennie. — But what are we to do with it if I do not 
wear it ? See, father I doesn't it look well ? It fits me 
exactl}'-. 

Father. — Yes ! it is very pretty ; but I wish the owner 
had it. Are you sure it is suitable for you ? 

Jennie. — Oh, father! it is exactly what I want. Some 
good fairy sent it to me, no doubt. 

Father. — But I fear the Merchant's company that I 
expect to join, will not take me in if they see signs of 
extravagance on you. 

Jennie. — They nearly all know us, and I think will 
not be concerned about a hood. 

Father. — Well, I will not object to your wearing it, 
if you are happy in doing so. 

Jennie. — Oh ! thank you for 3^our consent. I'll be 
ofi'now to see Anna. \_Jenme goes off to Aniia.'] 

Jennie. — Good evening, Anna. 

Anna. — Quite well. I'm glad to see j^ou, Jennie. I 
trust we will liave a good talk that will be profitable 
and interesting to us both. 

Jennie. — I hope so. 

Anna. — Are you acquainted with Fanny Bloom ? 

Jennie. — Slightly. Is she not rather reserved ? 

Anna. — She is a noble girl ; at least I always thought 
her one of the most lovely girls that- 1 know. It is a 
great pleasure to find a person acting out her own con- 
victions, and living according to her means, without 
dressing in a certain way because her neighbors do, and 
ncA'er consulting circumstances at home. 

Jennie. — Yet, one does not like to be entirely differ- 
ent from other people. We judge of others by these 
outward things. 

Anna. — I confess that my pride would take that di- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 141 

rection ; but whe T see vulgar people striving to be 
fashionable, looking as if they carried all their posses- 
sions on their back, having no higher aim than to dress 
gay and expensive like their neighbors, I feel like dress- 
ing in serge and hair-cloth. My soul is sick of this mean 
am])ition. How little they know of the true meaning of 
life ! 

Jennie. — Y-e-s. 

j^NNA. — I am afraid you will think me rather severe ; 
, but I feel very deeply on this subject. I long to be a 
preacher of faith. 

Jennie.—" Of faith !" 

Anna. — Yes ; of faith in something nobler and more 
satisfying than self and this outward world. Of faith 
in a Heavenly Father who gives to each his peculiar lot 
and duties. We are spoiling the beauty of his plan b}^ 
striving too much to appear as other folks do. Pure 
and simple tastes are gratified at little expense, and a 
free and loving spirit gives itself forth to cheer, to com- 
fort, and help others. 

Jennie. — Dear Anna, your soul-stirring words have 
reached my heart. Indeed, I feel all the time as though 
you were alluding to something about me. 

Anna. — I wish to give no offence by merely giving 
my opinion. 

Jennie. — Not at all. But this hood, I presume, j'ou 
think is too costly for me ; and I, too, am convinced that 
it is. Indeed, all the gems that are on it, only make me 
discontented. I shall not wear it any more. 

Anna. — But why not wear it since you have it? 

Jennie. — Father found it, and I insisted on wearing 
it. But the poor reproach me for doing so, the rich 
ridicule me, and my heart condemns me. If I could 
only find the owner how gladly I would restore it! 

Anna. — I have something to tell j^ou, Jennie. 

Jennie. — AVhat is it ? 

A>"NA. — That is my hood 

Jennie. — Yours ! 

Anna. — Yes. I knew it at once when you came. 

Jennie. — Oh, Anna 1 what an angel you are ! ITow 
could you bear me in your presence ? How you must 
Uave despised me ! 



142 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Anna. — I am glad to have you here, and hope I may 
never des])ise you. 

Jennje. — I wish I could be as good as you are. 

Anna. — You can ; what can any of us do in this life 
but repent and strive, and look upward to One who knows 
all, and j-et does not cast us off? 

Jennie. — I do repent, I do strive. I shall look u.pward 
as my only hope. A little more about the hood and I 
must go. I am so glad to find the owner, it will do me 
good to see you Avear it. 

Anna. — No, Jennie, don't talk about me wearing it ; 
I give it to you ; you may do what you like with it. It 
has given j'ou pain ; perhaps in some way it may give 
you pleasure. 

Jennie. — How shall I reward you for all your kind- 
ness to me ? 

Anna. — I am rewarded in the highest way ; do not 
mention reward. 

Jennie. — If you insist on my accepting it, I think I 
will get it exchanged for something more " suitable," as 
father says. 

Anna. — Very well, just as you please. Your father 
will think well of you for doing so, no doubt. 

Jennie. — Certainly he will ; and I must tell him 
soon what you have done for me. Good-by, dear Anna. 

Anna, — Good-by, Jennie ; may we always love each 
other I 



THE TRI-COLORS. 



[Three little girls stand hand in hand under the canopy of 
the Star Spangled Banner, each with a small flag in her hand. 
The representative of Red, to be dressed in that color, with 
'OSes forming a wreath, and a bouquet : White and Blue, dressed 
appropriately, White with lilies in bouquet, and white flowers 
in a wreath, and Blue, with violets.'] 

Red, White, and Blue [^speaking in concert ] : — We 
are three true-hearted, loving sisters. Our fame has 
«pread over the earth, and foreign nations are proud to 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 143 

bonor us. We float together, kissed b}' the rain, sun, 
and dew, from the mast head of the ships, that sail on 
the wide, blue sea ; and we are ever welcomed and ap- 
plauded, in every clime, and by every nation. As we 
near the port, many voices shout with joy and gladness, 
and the eye of the home-sick weary wanderer fills with 
tears of joy and welcome. Wherever seen, the heart 
of the patriot throbs with joy, for we bring thoughts 
and memories of that land where so many true men and 
women live, and where right and justice ai'e calmly 
conquering wrong and oppression. 

Red [^i^tepinng forward']. — /am found in the glowing 
western sky, when the sun sinks to rest, and bathes the 
tree-tops and hills with glorious golden light. I bring 
visions of cheer and plenty as I linger among the 
orchards, and paint the mellow apple, and the luscious 
peach ; and I enliven the landscape in autumn with my 
tints on the leaves in the forest. But I dwell in sweet- 
est loveliness in the fragrant rose, which blushes amid 
the dark green foliage, and gladdens the heart of ever}^ 
lover of beauty ; and on the fair cheek of youth and 
health. 

White. — / float in fairy forms in the pure clouds 
which rest against the vast, blue dome above us, and I 
hide m}^ head with the modest lihj. I am ever an em- 
blem of innocence and purity ; I enfold the beautiful 
form of the babe, whose innocent soul looks out from 
wondering e3'es on our strange world, and I drape the 
limbs of the dead, who lie cold and still in their purity. 
I fall in snowy folds around the young bride, and 
whisper to her of love, and joy. My sister [turning to 
Red], I am with you, and we dwell together on the 
rounded cheek of 3'outh. 

Blue. — Dear sisters, while the liiy and roee, as 3'oui 
emblems, are blending in perfect loveliness on the fail 
cheek of youth, health, and beauty, I am sparkling in 
the ever-speaking eye, which tells its own language 
of sorrow and grief, joy and gladness. I am seen in 
the modest sweet-scented violet, which meekly bows its 
head to the world, and half hides its beauty from thf» 
careless gaze. 



144 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

[^Acjain, in concert, with clasped hands, and in an 

exultant, joyful tone.'] 

But we are proudest, and happiest, when all together 

^e form the colors of Our Country. We dwell in the 

dear old flag, which now floats over a peaceful, loxnng 

people. Oh ! the glorious flag, 

" Long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave." 

[T7ie three unite in singing.'] 

"Oh! Columbia, the gem of tbe ocean." 

[The effect is the prettiest if the whole school eacb have a 
fsmall flag concealed nnder their desks, and then join in the 
song, and at each chorus, " Three cheers for the red, white, 
and blue," wave their flags.] 



ANNIE'S PARTY. 

CHAEACTERS. 
Uncle John, Annie, P'annie, Nannie, 
Dora, Flora, Faith. 

Scene. — A bevy of little girls, hands joined in a ring. 
Uncle John reading a paper. 



[_All — swinging in a circle and singing."] 

RiDtr round rosy in Uncle .John's garden, 

Unci'» John is very sick, what shall we send him ? 

\ Uncle John covers his face with the paper as if 
asleep.] 

Three good wishes, three good kisses, and a slice of gingerbread. 

What shall we send it in ? 

In a golden saucer. 

Whom shall we send it by? 

By the Governor's daughter, 

One that 's down last tell whom she loves best. 

All. — Oh, it's Fannie Day 1 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 145 

Fannie. — I don't like this play : let's play something 
else. 

Annie. — What shall we play ? I never can think of 
any thing to play when I have a party. 

Dora. — Button! 

Flora. — Dear me, that is so old 1 

Annie. — 0, I'll ask Uncle John. He knows every 
thing. TTncle John — [taking the paper from his facel 
— do tell us something to play, that's a darling 1 

Flora, Nannie. — O do, please I 

Fannie. — We ca n't think of anj' thing. 

John. — I'm very sick, Annie. 

Annie. — 0, that's too bad ! I'll call mother. 

John. — No need of that. There were just now a rosy 
ring of fairies out in the garden, and they promised to 
send me some beautiful presents. I presume they will 
cui-e me. 

Nannie. — Dear! dear! Isn't he the funniest man you 
ever saw ? 

John. — Perhaps you don't believe it! Such beauti- 
ful fairies — with blue ribbons, and green ribbons, and 
red ribbons, and pink ribbons — ail turning round and 
round. You will soon see the Governor's daughter come 
in with my pi'esents. I 'm very fond of gingerbread. 

[All laugh."] 

Dora. — I shall die laughing ! 

John. — Miss Dora, will you look out of the window 
and see if she's coming. 

[A knock at the door. Enter a fairy with a tray.'} 

Fairy. — [Curtesying very low.'] — The flower-fairies 
of 3'our garden, hearing of j^our illness, have sent yon 
this little token of their sympathy ; and in return for 
your kindness in giving water to the drooping flowers 
when they were fainting for cooling showers, the}' desire 
to grant you three good wishes. 

John. — It is very good of the flower-fairies to be so 
grateful, 1 am sure, and if I had known I was doing a 
kindness to such a beautiful young lady as yourself — 

Annie. — Fie, Uncle John 1 
10 



146 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

John. — Excuse me, young ladies, I did not intend to 
sligiit you, for I am sure you are as charming as fairies, 
and to prove my regard for you, will you tell me what 
to wish for ? 

Annie. — Wish for as much gold as can be piled in this 
room. 

John. — That's modest, I'm sure. 

Nannie. — Wish to be President of the United States. 

John. — Too much honor. 

Fannie. — Wish to be the wisest man in the world. 

Dora. — Wish to be the happiest man in the world. 

Flora. — Wish for all the candy and nuts and raisins 
we can all eat. 

[ They all laugh.'] 

John. — That's nice for me. But here's a little one 
that has not spoken a word this evening. What do you 
think is the best wish in the world ? 

Faith. — Mother says we must always pray to be con- 
tented with what we have,' and then we shall be happy. 
You better wish to be good and contented. 

John. — Little Faith is right. Miss Fairy, you can 
report to Queen Mab, that I wish to be very good and 
very happ,y; there are two wishes. I will take a basket 
of apples and candy for the third. [_Exit Fairy.'] 

Annie. — What a beautiful fairy ! 

Flora. — I do hope she will send us the apples and 
candy. 

Annie. — But you must be very good, you know, Uncle 
John ; so now tell us what we can play. 

John. — How would you like to speak pieces ? 

Dora. — Wouldn't that be splendid ! 

Fannie. — What can we speak ? 

Nannie. — Any thing we know. 

Faith. — Will Uncle John speak a piece too ? 

Annie. — Of course. 

Dora. — We shan't excuse him. 

John. — I 'in very sick. 

Flora. — No, the gingerbread cured you. You can't 
play sick any more. 

John. — I will see how I feel by-and-by. Perhaps — 

Dora. — 0, isn't he the goodest uncle in the world ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 147 

Faith. — Annie must begin. 

[_They all sit down, and Annie comes to the front of 
the stage.'} 

Annie, — 

Uncle John is verj sick, 
And what shall we send Lim t 

Flora [laughing']. — not that I 

Annie. — 

There was an old woman went up in a basket 

Seventy times as high as the moon ; 
What to do there, I could not but ask it^ 

For in her hand she carried a broom. 
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I, 
" Whither, whither, whither so high ?" 
" To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, 
And I '11 be back again by-and-by." 

Dora. — That was first rate. Now, Nannie. 

Nannie. — 

Dear sensibility, la ! 
I heard a little lamb cry baa, 
Says I, "So you have lost your ma !'• 
"Baa!" 

The little lamb, as I said so. 

Frisking about the fields did go, 

And frisking, trod upon my toe. 
"0— ohl" 
Fannie. — 

Three little mice sat down to spin. 

Pussy passed by and she peeped in. 

" What are you at, my fine little men ?" 

" Making coats for gentlemen." 

" Shall I come in and bite oflf your thread f" 

" No, no. Miss Pussy, you '11 bite off our head." 

Dora. — I can't think of any thing. 
Annie. — Nonsense I I've heard you say lots of 
pr»tty verses. 



148 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Dora.— Shall I say " Children in the Wood?" 
All. — 0, yes! That 's splendid. 
Dora. — 

My dears, do you know, 

That a long time ago, 

Two poor little children, 

Whose names I don't know, 
Were stolen away on a fine summer's day, 
And left in a wood, so I've heard people say. 

And when it was night how sad was their plight ! 
The sun it went down, and the moon gave no light ; 
They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried, 
And the poor little things — they laid down and died. 
And when they were dead, the robins so red. 
Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread, 
And all the day long they sung them this song, 
•* Poor babes in the wood I Poor babes in the wood ! 
Ah I don't you remember the babes in the wood?" 

Annie. — Now, Uncle John. 
Dora. — Yes, you must speak now. 
Flora. — I shan't say one word till you do, and Faith 
won't. 
Faith. — No. 
John. — Then I suppose I must. 

[ Coming forward with a bashful air, and making a 
stiff school-boy^s bow.^ 

You'd scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage ; 
And if I chance to fall below 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 
Don't pick me up, but let me go. 
[^Bows again and retires. All laughJ} 

Annie. — Now, Flora. 
Flora — 

What does little birdio say 

In her nest at peep of day ? 

•* Let me fly," says little birdie, 

*' Mother, let me fly away." 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 149 

Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings grow stronger, 
So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies, she flies away. 

What does little baby say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie. 

Mother, let me fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 

Baby too, shall fly away. 



Faith.. 



I want to he an angel, 

And with the angels stand, 
A crown upon my forehead, 

A harp within my hand. 
There, right before ray Saviour 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd make the sweetest music. 

And praise him day and night. 

\_All the girls come to the front of the stage with 
their right arms round each other^s waists, and 
sing the preceding stanza, and this ;] 

I know I 'm weak and sinful, 

But Jesus will forgive ; 
For many little childn^n 

Have gone to heaven to live ; 
Dear Saviour, when I languish 

And lay me down to die, 
Oh send a shining angel 

To bear me to the sky. 

Uncle John. — The apples and candy are waiting in 
the next room. 

[Exit aU."] 



1^0 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE RECLAIMED BROTHER; OR, THE CHAIN 

OF ROSES. 

CHARACTEES. 
Henry Barton. James Smith. Ellen Barton. 



Scene 1. — A country store-room. Henry Barton and 
James Smith discovered. 

Henry. — I'm glad you dropped in this evening, Jim, 
All the customers are gone now and we can have a nice 
little talk, all by ourselves. 

James. — I notice you have been kept very busy, and 
I suppose you are very tired by this time ; therefore I'll 
not stay long. Are you going down to singing school 
to-morrow evening ? 

Henry. — I'm afraid I can't get away. Mr. Hagan is 
in the city, and it is probable he will not be home until 
late to-morrow night. If he should get home early in 
the evening I can go. 

James. — I suppose you intend to take Lizzie Hall if 
you go ? 

Henry. — ^Don't know yet— I guess I can't^f you have 
any notion of going that way to the singing, go ahead ; 
I'll not be in yonv way. But. Jim, what do you say, 
will you have a drink of brandy ? 

James. — Brandy ? No, indeed ! I never drink liquor 
of any kind. I hope you hav'n't taken to drink. 

Henry. — Oh, no, not at all ; but I take a little some- 
times for the good of my health. 

James. — Oh ! is it possible ? Henry you are treading 
on dangerous ground. Beware ! 

Henry. — Pooh, don't be alarmed ! I can take it or I 
can let it alone. Come, take a little drop, James ; I 
have a bottle of first-rate stuff behind the counter. 

James.— Well, you may keep it there ! Don't bring 
it out on my account, for I assure you I'll not touch it, 

Henry. — Well, you needn't get crankey about it ; I 
«vont insist on you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 161 

James.— I tell you again, Henry, you are treading on 
dangerous ground. You think there is no danger, but 
I know there is. I once heard a lecturer say that when 
a young man commenced to drink he wove a chain of 
roses around him which, in time, became a chain of iron 
that could not be broken. 

Henry. — Bah ! Such talk always disgusts me. Do 
you think I hav'n't a mind of my own, and am able to 
drink or let it alone as I please ? 

James. — I acknowledge that you may be able now to 
drink or let it alone as you please : but tell me, isn't it a 
great deal easier to take it than to let it alone ? 

Henry. — Well — yes — no, I can't say that it is. 

James. — It may be as easy now to let it alone as it is 
to take it, but if you keep on drinking the time will 
come when you can not let it alone. Yovt will come to 
\ike it more and more, and the chain will be drawn tighter 
and tighter around you, and it will be impossible for you 
to break it. 

Henry. — Do hush, James ; I don't want to hear any 
sermons this evening. 

James.— I have commenced, and I want to say a few 
words more. You and 1 have always been good friends, 
Henry, and I hope we will be so still. Let me, there- 
fore, advise you to take warning now. If you go on in 
your course you will break your sister's heart and bring 
down your aged mother in sorrow to the grave. They 
do not know that you are in danger. They look upon 
you with pride ; but, tell me, what would they do and 
what would they say if they knew you had a bottle con- 
cealed in the store ? 

Henry. — Well, to tell the truth, I suppose they 
wouldn't like it very much. I reckon they would get 
up a little scene ; but then they are always troubling 
themselves about things that don't concern them. I 
think I am old enough to take care of myself. 

James. — Well, I suppose it is useless for me to talk 
to you any further on the subject. I see you are deter- 
mined to take your own course. I v^^ill leave you ; think 
over what I have said — think of the chain of roses which 
surrounds you now and think of the chain of iron which 
will soon surround you. Good-night. 



152 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Henry. — Hold on, Jim — don't he in a hnrry. Stop 
and take a pull of Ijrandy. 

James. — I say again, beware ! Good-night. 

Henry. — Good-night. [_Exit James.'] 

Henry. — Well, he's a puritanical sort of a follow. He 
thinks I'm in great danger, but I know I am not. 
There's no use in a person being frightened before he is 
hurt. Well, I'll shut up shop and be off to bed. 
\_Cur tain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — A room. Ellen and Henry Barton 
discovered. 

Ellen [iceeping]. — Henry j^ou came home last night 
intoxicated. How long must it go on thus ? You 
promised me faithfully after our mother died, and after 
you were discharged from Mr. Hagan's employ, that you 
would never taste intoxicating liquor again. Have you 
kept 3'our promise ? Ah, if you knew how I feel when 
yon come home intoxicated, I know you would ncA'er 
drink again. 

Henry. — Don't lecture me to-day, Ellen, I feel badly 
enough and there's no use in giving me any further 
trouble. I know I have done wrong, but it seems I 
can't keep from falling when temptation is thrown in my 
way. But don't talk to me ; Ellen, my head is aching 
fearfully and I want to be quiet. 

Ellen. — I must talk, Henry. I beseech you, if j^ou 
have any love for me, if you have any regard for the 
memory of our patient and loving mother, who is now 
in Heaven and who knows your every action, that you 
determine in your heart that 3'ou will nevermore touch 
the intoxicating bowl, and that you will strive faithfully 
to keep your promise, and then ask God to deliver you 
when tempted and he will do it. Oh, do not — do not, I 
beseech you, go on in the course you have marked out. 
It will bring ruin on yourself — ruin of both body and 
Boul ; whilst 1, who have always looked upon you with 
pride will be led to despise 3'ou. 

Henry. — What's the use of making a'ows and prom- 
ises when they are made only to be broken ? 1 know I 
am doing wrong but 1 can't help it. 

BiLEN. — But you can help it if you are only deter- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 163 

rained and if 3'ou strive mightily and ask Gu'\ to help 
you. If you do so you can overcome and rtaist all 
temptations, no matter how strong they may be. 

Henry. — 1 used to think I could but I don't think so 
now. If any person had told me yesterday that 1 would 
be drunk before another day had gone round I would 
have considered him a fool. I had not tasted liquor for 
three months and I felt strong again. I believed I had 
entirely broken away from the band of iron that held 
me, and I felt and moved as a new man and as one who 
rejoiced in his strength. But in an unlucky moment I 
fell. As I was passing the tavern j^esterday evening I 
met my old friend Jack Martin. He asked me to drink. 
At first I refused, but he insisted — " for friendship's 
sake," he said, and it seemed I couldnH resist. After I 
had taken the first glass it was very easy to take another 
and another, and I didn't stop until I was beastly drunk 
and had to be brought home by some of my friends. 
Oh, I heartily wish there was no liquor in the world, or 
that I had the power to keep it from my lips 1 

Ellen. — Give me your promise once more, Henry, 
that you will strive to resist the demon intemperance, 
and that you will put your trust in God and ask him to 
help 3'ou. I know it is very hard to break away when 
the habit has once been formed, but it is worth while to 
try when there is so much at stake. Give me your 
promise again and I will pray for you — I will pray that 
you may always be able to resist temptation, and that 
you may live the life of a true and a good man. 

Henry. — Well, I give you m}^ promise again, but it 
seems wrong to promise when my promises are so often 
broken. But I promise 3'ou that I will never touch the 
accursed bowl again. 

Ellen. — Strive to keep your promise, dear brother, 
and all will 3'et be well. -\_Gur tain falls.'] 

Scene 3. — Same as second. James Smith and Ellen 
and Henry Barton discovered. 
Henry. — Five years ago, James, you discovered that 
I was learning to drink. You had called in at Mr. 
Hagan's store to see me and there discovered that the 
wine cup was luring me on to destruction. You warned 



154 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

me to leave off and not break my mother's heart. You 
told me that a chain of roses was being wound around 
me which would soon become a chain of iron. 1 heeded 
you not but went on in my downward career. A few 
months afterward I was discharged from Mr. Hagan's 
store, and a short time after that my sainted mother died 
sorrowing over her wayward son. I am employed again 
in Mr. Hagan's store and have regained the confidence 
of my employer. All I regret is that I did not take 
your advice that night in the store, and save my mother 
and sister the world of suffering they endured. 



REFORMATION. 

CHAEACTEES. 

PgI/Ice Officer. Superintendent of Eeform School. 

Teacher. John White, the boy. 

James Carr. John White, the man. Old Nab. 



Part 1. 

Scene. — Reform. School — Superintendent in office, writ- 
ing—James Carr sitting opposite, reading. Enter 
officer with boy, having long, uncombed hair, very dirty 
and ragged. 

Officer. — Good-morning, Mr. Superintendent ! Here 
is another youngster to add to your numerous family. 
\^Hands Superintendent the commitment, which he 
proceeds to read. In, the mneantime the culpi'it 
walks up to James Gai'r, and with a heavy blow 
with his fist knocks him off his chair. Both gen- 
tlemen pull him away rather roughly. Carr be- 
gins to cry lustily.'] 
Sup. \_shaking him']. — What do you mean by such 
conduct as that, sir ? 

Boy. — I know'd that feller outside ! He was put 
here for whipping his mother. He and I used to be 
"kinches" and went "snucks" on tappin' tills. Ono 
night he "blowed" on me, and I made up my mind to 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 155 

"lam" him the fast chance, and I've done it, only I 
want to get another lick at him 1 

Sup. — Well, sir, we don't allow such conduct here. 
And if 3^ou are guilty of it again, 3'ou will be severely 
punished. Step up here, now, and answer my questions. 
Mind you, tell me the truth, too, for I shall know in a 
moment when you tell me a lie. What is your name ? 

Boy.— " Yaller Jack I" 

Sup. — That is not your right name, sir ! 

Boy. — Yes, 'tis; the boys all call me "Yaller Jack." 

Sup. — I want your right name — the one your mother 
calls you. 

Boy. — I hain't got no mother. The old woman calls 
me John White. 

Sup. — What old woman ? 

Boy. — The one I lives with when I aint trampin'. 
She says she's my aunt, but I guess she lies. 

Sup. — What is this woman's name, and where does 
she live ? 

Boy. — They call her " Old Nab." She lives in Horse- 
tail court, down by Water street. 

Sup. — What does she do ? 

Boy. — Drinks rum, mostly. You see, I and Sal Lake 
board with her, and she sends Sal out every morning to 
beg and steal. She used to send me, too, but I've got 
so big now she can't come any of her games over me. I 
go on my own hook. 

Sup — Did you ever work ? 

Boy. — Yes, I set up ten-pins in Mike Dunn's alley for 
two months, but I got tired of that, and Mr. Smith's 
hostler gave me a job in the stable ; but I stole his rum 
one night, got drunk, and sot the hay afire, so I got 
cleared out. 

Sup. — Were you ever arrested before ? 

Boy. — Yes, a good many times. 

Sup.— What for? 

Boy. — Oh, for stealing and fighting. Old Jones got me 
" jugged," once, for setting fire to his barn, 'cause he 
horse-whipped me. I'll pay the old rascal yet. 

Sup. — Did you ever attend school ? 

Boy. — ^I went half a day once, but the teacher didn't 
come. 



156 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Sup. — Do 3'ou know your letters ? 

Boy. — No ; but I know how to play cards. 

Sup, — Did you ever go to church or to Sabbath 
school ? 

Boy. — I was inside a church once, with Pat Mooney. 
We got through the winder, and got a whole lot of 
books ! 

Sup. — How old were you when your father and mother 
died? 

Boy. — Mother died when I was a little shaver. 1 
don't think I ever had any father ! 

Sup. — Come here, and let me examine your pockets. 
[Overhauls his pockets and jy^Hs out several plugs and 
papers of tobacco, a pipe, a pack of cards and a bottle 
of gin. Sends Carr for teacher, ivJio soon makes his 
appearance.'] Mr. Ha^'den, 3^ou will please take this 
boy and see that he is thoroughly washed and has his 
hair cut. Then burn those rags and have some clean 
clothing put on him. 

\_Exit boy and teacher by one door ; by opposite door 
enters an old, fat, red-faced Irish woman, half 
drunk. She goes directly to the officer and shakes 
her fist in his face.] 

Old Nab. — Och, ye mnrtherin' spalpeen ! What have 
ye done with me b'3' ? Sure and couldn't the little in- 
nocent go afther a little dhrop of ile for his old aunty's 
lamps without 3'our stalin' him ant. bringin' him to this 
horrible place. Bad luck to ye ! 

Officer. — You must talk to that gentleman [_point- 
ing to Superintendent^. The boy is in his charge now. 

Old Nab [courtesying']. — I beg yer honor's pardon, 
but where is me b'y ? I came to take him home wid we ; 
and he has as beautiful a home as iver a b'y had in the 
wurrld. 

Sup. — Wh}^ madam, the officer saj^s he caught him in 
the act of house-breaking. The boy himself says you 
taught him to beg and steal. This is the kind of oil j^ou 
sent him after, [holding up the bottle,'] and your face 
looks as if you had " struck oil," a little too often. 1 
shall keep the bo}^, and if he behaves well, you will be 
permit'f^^ed to visit him in the course of two Vv^eeks. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 157 

Old Nab. — Och, ye two murtherin' villains ! I'll sa 
if I can't have me Wy, the little darlint that I liave so 
tinderly brought up in the buzzum of the church I I'll 
sa Father Mahooney this blissed day, I will, and bad 
luck to yez. 

[_L'xit Nab and Officer. Enter John WJiite, j)resent- 
ing quite a different appearance in his new suit.] 

John ^admiring himself^. — Aha! I'm somebody 
now, aint I ? 

Sup. — You certainly look much better, and I hope 
}-ou will try hereafter to be a better bo}^ To-morrow 
you will attend school, and work in the shop. Your 
privileges Avhile here, and the length of time you remain 
here, will depend entirel}^ u})on your own conduct. You 
are not to be kept here for punishment, but for reforma- 
tion. Your past offences will be overlooked. Here our 
rules forbid j'our sweai'ing, fighting, or lying. For 
either of these offences you will be punished. On Sun- 
day, you will attend church and Sabbath-school, and if 
you improve fast while here, you will in a few months be 
permitted to go out to a good home. 

John. — I'll try to behave. 

Sup. — That is right. " I'll try" does wonders some- 
times. 

Part 2. 

Scene. — Interval of twelve years. Schoolroom in same 
institution. Enter Superintendent, accompanied by a 
young man whom he introduces to the teacher. 

Sup. — Boys, I take pleasure in introducing to you Mr. 
John White, who was formerly an inmate of this institu- 
tion, but who is now engaged in study for the ministry. 
You will please listen attentively while he entertains 
you with a few remarks. 

John. — My 3'oung friends : — Twelve years ago I came 
to this institution a poor, worthless outcast. Having 
lost my parents when quite young, I was thrown friend- 
less and homeless upon the world. I was picked up in 
the street by an old drunken woman, who took me to 
her miserable hut and taught me to beg and steal that I 
might contribute to her support. I soon became an apt 



168 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

pupil. I found the transition from one crime to anothei 
gradual and easy. Stealing, swearing, and Sabbath 
breaking were my principal accomplishments. I was 
finallj'^ arrested and brought here. That was the first 
step toward my salvation. Here, for the first time, was 
I decently clad. Here I was taught to read and work. 
In the Sabbath-school, of which you are members, I was 
first taught the wa}^ of life and that I had an immortal 
soul. Here I found true friends, and these friends I 
have gratefully remembered through all the subsequent 
years of my life. When I came, I determined to reform. 
I obeyed the rules and improved my time. In less than 
a year a place was found for me with a wealthy and 
benevolent gentlemen, and ever since his house has been 
my home. Bo^^s, this is your golden opportunity ; 
strive to improve it. Listen to the teachings here im- 
parted to you. Resolve that the past shall be for- 
gotten in the good deeds of the future. By so doing, 
you will become useful members of society, and qualified 
to take your parts in the great Battle of Life. 

\_The boys all rush up to him as he concludes, to 
shake hands, and the curtain falls.'] 



SEEING A GHOST. 

CHARACTERS. 

Nellik. Sue. Margaretta. 



Scene. — Nellie and Sue sitting together in the evening, 
employed on some kind of fancy work. 

Sue. — I don't believe, Nell, there ever was such a thing 
as a ghost, you may say what you please. I never shall 
be afraid of encountering one. 

Nell. — I hope you never will, but I believe there must 
be something in ghosts, or else there never would have 
been so many stories about them ; beside, my Uncle Tom 
slept in a haunted house once, and a ghost came into his 
room and stood over the bed. My Uncle Tom always 
spoke the truth. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 159 

Sue. — I don't doubt but that he thought he saw one, 
but I do doubt that he did, for I believe it was a ghost 
only of his imagination. 

Nell. — Well, my mother once saw one walking in the 
grave-yard, and surely you wont think that imagina- 
tion. 

Sue. — Well, I believe it was either imagination, or 
some one who attempted to frighten her. 

Nell. — Well. I think you are obstinate enough, and 
that nothing will convince you except experience ; which 
I hope you may never have. 

Sue. — If I should see any thing which resembled a 
ghost, I should be sure it was some one trying to 
frighten me, and I would find out if they we^e possessed 
of ghostly properties. 

Nell. — I hardly think you would be as brave as the 
young lady who went into a tomb for the purpose of 
trying her courage, if you do think you would not fear 
a ghostly appearance. 

Sue. — Why, what happened to her ? 

Nell — Well, she took up a skull and commenced ex- 
amining it, when a sepulchral voice sounded near, and 
said, "That's mine!" So she dropped the skull and 
took up another, and began an examination, when a 
voice said, " That's mine !" Instead of displaying fear 
she called out in a firm voice, " You fool, you haven't 
got two skulls." She had recognized the voice as be- 
longing to one person. 

Sue. — Oh, dear ! I never want to go into a tomb any 
way, or touch a skull ; but I'll risk all the ghosts. I'm 
glad I am not as superstitious as you are. 

Nell. — So am I ; for I am frightened always when I 
am alone in the evening, for fear I shall see a ghost. 

Sue. — How silly ! Who put such ideas into j^our head 
in the first place? 

Nell. — My Uncle Tom is always telling ghost 
stories. When I was a a little bit of girl he used to take 
me on his knee and tell me most dreadful stories, till I 
cant help believing in ghosts. 

Sue. — I am really sorry for yon, Nell ; but do try and 
banish such superstition. 

Nell. — I have tried a great many times, but it does 



160 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ao good. The other night I vras obliged to walk alone 
a short distance in the dark, and on seeing something 
white, I was so frightened that I coukl scarcely walk, 
and I felt as if I should soon faint, when brother Will 
overtook me, and said my would-be ghost was only a 
white calf. 

Sue. — I believe all ghosts, if seen in the daytime 
would be as far from any thing unnatural as that poor 
calf. 

Nell. — I have often thought what I would say should 
1 see such an apparition ; but I presume it would all flee 
from me when the ghost appeared. 

Sue. — I presume so. 13ut what do you think you 
would do ? 

Nell. — I think I would talk to the white object in a 
coaxing manner, for I have heard they will leave much 
sooner than if one speaks harshly to them. 

Sue. — Indeed ! So you would use gentle means to 
rid yourself of their presence? 1 would do no such 
thing, I assure 3^ou. 

Nell. — What would 3'ou do, then ; command them ? 
I have heard that they will be sure to haunt one who 
uses them unkindly. 

Sue. — You hear great things, and such as I do not 
believe. But I wouldn't command them, I would only 
run to them and divest them of their white drapery, 
so that I might see who wished to pla^^ a trick on me. 

Nell. — What if you should see it vanish away be- 
fore you could touch it ! Then would you believe in 
ghosts ? 

Sue. — Certainly. 

Nell. — Oh, Sue! the clock has just struck nine, and 
I told mother I would be home at half past eight ; but, 
really, it is so dark, and I am alone that I feel afraid. 

Sue. — I will go with you and pi'otect you from all the 
gaosts, for you know I am not afraid. 

Nell. — I am so glad. Let us go now, for mothei 
will be so anxious. But, hark ! what was that noise ? 

Sue. — 1 heard nothing but the wind. Don't be so 
timid. 

Nell. — Listen ! there, you certainly heard that. 
What was it ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 161 

Sue.— Nothing I Oh ! look ! look 1 

[_Door opens nloivly and a person wrapped in a sheet 
walks slowly into the room.'] 

Nell. — Sue! Sue! you're not afraid; make it go 
way. [/S'ue crouches behind her chair. "] 

Sue. — Coax it, Nell. Oh! I'm fainting. 
[ The ghost approaches nearer.'] 

Nell. — My dear, kind ghost, wont you please — 
Oh-h-h 1 

\_The ghost approaches still nearer to Sue and stands 
still.] 

Ghost. — Never deny my existence again. 
[Goes out slowly.] 

Nell. — It is gone, Sue; but oh 1 wasn't it dreadful? 

Sue. — More terrible than I ever saw before. I siiall 
oelieve in ghosts after this. 

Nell. — Who could help it ? How I shudder to think 
of it? I phall not go home to-night. 

Sue. — You must go alone if you do. 

Nell. — And that I'll never do. [Enter Ifargarette.] 

Nell. — Oh, Margarette I we were so terrified a moment 
ago. Sue nearly fainted, and I felt my senses leaving 
me. 

Margarette. — Why, what was the matter? 

Sue. — We saw a ghost. 

Margarette. — Oh I don't talk so foolishly. There 
are no ghosts in this house, I assure you. You are very 
imaginative, to-night. 

Nell. — No; we certainly saw one. I should think you 
might believe what both of us say. 

Sue. — It came so near me that I could have touched 
it, and it was a ghost. 

Margarette. — Girls, I did think j'ou possessed of a 
little courage ; what j-ou thought a ghost was only my- 
self with a sheet wrapped about me. 

Nell. — No, no ; it must have been a ghost. 

Margarette. — If you can not believe me, I will play 
ghost again. 

Sue. — Don't, I beg of you. It must be; but how fool- 
ish I acted. Why did I not run after you as 1 said I 
should and find out it was you ? 
11 



162 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUKS. 

Nell. — Well, if people can imitate ghosts as welf as 
that, I shall think that there are not quite so many 
after all. 

Marqarette. — I hope j^ou will think so, and not be 
so timid after this. I think this will teach Sue not to 
boast of her courage again. 

Sue. — Indeed it will. Come, Margarette, let us both 
go home with Nell. [All go out.'] 



TEE MOTTO ; OR, EXAMPLE. 

Scene 1. — Two little girls seated at a work-table, one 
sewing, the other arranging a box of zephyr worsteds 
and silks. The name of the eldest Mary, the youngest 
Fannie. 

Fannie. — Sister Mary, our teacher told us yesterday, 
that it was very nnchristian-like to speak evil of the ab- 
sent. Do you think it is ? 

Mary. — Yes, Fannie, I think it very wrong ; and you 
know mamma never speaks evil of any one. 

Fannie. — Well, then, I think that ladj^ who called to 
see mamma this morning is not a Christian, for she said 
so much evil about the governess of her children. Do 
you think she is ? 

Mary. — Indeed I don't know whether she is a Chris- 
tian or not ; but I know my sister Fannie is speaking 
evil of her, and the Bible forbids evil speaking of any- 
body. 

Mother [who had entered the room unperceived, and 
heard part of the conversation']. — Do you know in what 
part of the Bible it is forbidden, Mary ? 

Mary. — Yes, mamma, here it is [turning over the 
leaves of a small pocket-testament, and reads aloud] : 
James, fourth chapter and eleventh verse — " Speak not 
evil one of another." 

Mother. — Well, Fannie, you wished me to find you 
a text for your marker ; now I will give you this one to 
work. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 163 

Fannie. — But, mamma, do you think it is so very, 
very wrong to speak evil ? [Looking up inquiringly in 
her mother's fo.ce.'] 

Mother. — I do, indeed, my daughter, think it exccvid 
ingly sinful. It is a violation of the moral law of God. 

Fannie. — But, mamma, when Mrs. Flipp was here this 
morning, and spoke so much evil about her governess, 
you did — [stopping, she looks down, and blushes']- 

Mother. — You do not mean to say, Fannie, that 3'our 
mother joined in the slander ? 

Fannie. — Oh, no ! No, mamma ! You did not speak 
one word of evil, but [and again she looks down, col- 
ors, and is silent']. 

Mother. — But, what ? Don't be afraid, my love, but 
speak out candidly. 

Fannie. — Well, mamma [looking up timidly], you did 
not look displeased, and you smiled two or three times. 

Mother. — Did I, m3' love? Then I did very wrong 
I will try to be more careful for the future, and endeavor 
to show by my manner and words, as well as by silence, 
that I think evil-speaking is a crime — and, as such^ 
should be discouraged by all Christian people. 

Mary. — Mamma, would it not be a good idea to have 
an Auti-Evil-Speaking Societ}- ? 

Mother [smiling].— A think it v^'ould, my dear; and 
suppose we begin one in a small private way. We three 
will form a little baud, and do all Ave can to overcome 
this fault in ourselves and others. What do you say ? 

Mary. — Excellent ! 

Fannie [exclaims at the same moment]. — Delightful 1 

Mary. — And, mamma, we'll appoint you President 
[laughing]. 

Mother. — Well, Mary, I accept the office, and ap- 
point you Treasurer. 

Mary. — Treasurer, mamma ! Why, will there be any 
money to keep ? 

Mother. — There may be, although I hope there will 
not. 

jMary. — I don't understand you, mamma. 

Mother. — Y/ell then, Mary, as I am President, I am 
going to make it a penalty of five cents flue for every 
time we speak evil. 



164 SCHOOLDAY DIALOOUES. 

Fannie. — 1 know, mamma, you will never have any 
fines to pay. 

Mother. — I am not quite so sure of that, Fannie; 
but I think this will act as a cheek, and make us more 
watchful. We will each have a small box, and the con- 
tents will be given to tlie poor. 

Fannie. — And may I give mine to poor old Sally, 
mamma ? 

Mother. — Certainly, my dear, if jow wish it ; and I 
want you to remember, Fannie, if you ever take her 
gifts which your transgression of the law of love has 
earned for her, that 1 have known her for twenty years, 
and have never heard her speak one unkind word of any, 
although she has suffered a great deal from the unkind- 
ness of others. [Then, turning to her eldest daughter, 
she said ;] Do you know, Mary, I have often thought 
that this poor woman would be a noble example for some 
who can boast of education and high position. And 
now, my daughters, as we are formed into a society, its 
name, as Mary suggested, shall be " The Anti-Evil-Speak- 
vng Societ}^ ;" and its motto — what shall it be ? 

Fannie. — Oh, please mamma, let it be the text you 
have given me to work. 

Mother. — Yes, Fannie, we can not have a more suita- 
ble one — so our motto shall be: " Speak not evil one 

OF ANOTHER." 

{_At this moment the pai^lor-dMor opened, and two 
morning visitors were announced — Mrs. Dash and 
Miss Brilliant. A few common-jjlace remarks en- 
sue, which the teacher of the dialogue can easily 
supply.'] 
Mrs. Dash. — I presume, Mrs. Belmont [the mother of 
the little girls'], you have heard the all-absorbing " sensa- 
tion" wliich is going the rounds — the elopement of Col- 
onel Fast's son with his chamber-maid ? 
Mrs. Belmont. — No, I have not. 
Mrs. Dash. — No! Well, you are '"late!" But it is a 
treat to come, for it is ridiculous in the extreme, and I 
am qu\te sure Miss Brilliant will relate the story in her 
inimitable style of portraying the ludicrous. Will you 
Qot, my dear ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 165 

Mrs. Belmont. — If Miss Brilliant will first do me a 
favor, I shall be greatl^y obliged. 

Miss Brilliant. — Certainly, Mrs. Belmont; j-ou have 
but to make the request. 

Mrs. Belmont. — Thank yon, dear Miss Brilliant, my 
daughters have to go to their studies, and Mary has 
expressed a great desire to hear you sing the exquisite 
anthem, which so charmed us all at Mrs. Cardini's, on 
Thursday evening last. \_Saying which she rose and 
opened the piano.'] 

Miss Brilliant. — It will give me the greatest 
pleasure to oblige Miss Mary, who I hear is a very 
talented musician in embryo, \_timiling, she seats her- 
t:elf gracpfuUy at the instrument, and sings with great 
feeling, the anthem ''I know that my Redeemer liveth.'^] 

Mrs. Dasii [who rises and glances at her watcli 
before the last note has scarcely died away'].—l fear 
we will be late for our appointment at one, as I see it 
wants but twenty-five minutes of the time; so do, my 
dear Miss Brilliant, give us the storj' as quickly as pos- 
sible ? 

Miss Brilliant. — Oh, not noic ! Mi's. Dash, [implor- 
ingly,'] indeed I can not tell it at present. 

[Overcome ivith her emotions she bursts into tears. 
Little Fannie throws her arms a7'0und her and 
whispers in childlike simplicity ;] 

Fannie. — Don't cry. Miss Brilliant, please don't cry 
any more. [Miss Brilliant returns her co.ress and wipes 
her eyes.] 

Mrs. Dash — Oh ! I beg pardon most sincerely. Miss 
Brilliant; I did not know 3'ou had changed j^our mind, 
and I hope, Mrs. Belmont, you will excuse my being the 
innocent cause of getting up "a scene;" it is what I 
always studiously aim to avoid — no one can dread ex- 
citements more than I do — pray, excuse it, Mrs. Bel- 
mont. 

Mrs. Belmcnt. — You have done nothing, Mrs. Dash, 
for me to excuse ; and as to Miss Brilliant's feelings, 
those sublime words aflTeeted her too deeply to recite a 
frivolous, slandering story so soon after ; she has en- 
deared herself to my heart and gained my esteem. 

{^The ladies now pjroceed to the hall, and as Mrs. 



166 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Dash advances, Miss Brilliant returns and whtS' 
- pers to 3Irs. Belmont.^ 
Miss Brilliant. — Can I see you alone in an hour, 
if I call ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — Certainly, my love — come. 

Scene 2. — 3Irs. Belmont is seated alone in her parlor. 
Miss Brilliant enters. 

Miss Brilliant. — My dear Mrs. Belmont, I was 
anxious to see you alone to explain my extraordinary 
conduct, 3^ou must have thought me very childish ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — Not at all, my love, I do not wonder 
at your feeling so deepl}^ such words, as you sung. 

Miss Brilliant. — 15ut I have sung them man3i' times, 
before, and was never so affected by them. In the 
first place, when I came here this morning, it was with 
a deep feeling of mortification. The last call Mrs. 
Dash and mj'self had made, she persuaded me to tell 
the ludicrous story of which they spoke to you. I did 
tell it, and as she would haA^e said, in my "inimitable 
state," of course I had the plaudits of the fashionable 
gossips present, and felt elated; but just as we were 
about retiring, the ladies, thinking usout of hearing, their 
conversation turned upon myself. One lady made the 
remark — "Miss Brilliant is a most inimitable mimic." 
" Yes," replied another, " and I suppose we will be taken 
off, at her next call." " I was reading" said a third, " a 
few days ago, what an old author said about a talent 
for ridicule — 'If it is indulged in for amusement, it is 
foolish ; if for revenge, it is wicked.' " Mrs. Dash was 
busily engaged in conversation with the lady of the 
house, and did not hear the remarks ; and I did not 
tell her, for 1 believe people seldom speak of that which 
nrortifies their pride. When I was requested to tell 
you the same story, and j'ou prevented it, I can truly 
say, I was deeply grateful, for I did not want to tell the 
story, but did not know how to get out of it. Now tell 
me, my dear Mrs. Belmont, had you not a design in 
asking me to sing the anthem ? if you had, you took a 
most admirable plan ! 

Mrs. Belmont.— Yes ; I had a design in it, I feel 



i 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 167 

myself religiously bound not only to abstain from evil 
speaking myself, but to discourage it in others when- 
ever I can. 

Miss Brilliant. — You will scarcely believe me, Mrs. 
Belmont, when I assure j'ou, that although I have £0 
freely indulged in this habit of ridicule and slander, I 
have always disapproved of it, and even when my 
praises have been the loudest. I have recently despised 
myself, for making mei*riment, like a buflbon, at the 
expense of others. 

Mrs. Belmont. — I can very readily credit that those 
were your feelings, for you were acting out your lower 
nature, and neglecting to develop your higher capacities ; 
and at the same time when we transgress any of the 
moral laws, there is a conscious feeling of degredation 
which humbles us in our own estimation, and this is a 
wise check from our Maker. 

Miss Brilliant — When I seated mj'self this morn- 
ing at the piano, it was with such a keen feeling of mor- 
tification, and with such a sincere wish to renounce for 
ever this abominable practice, that I saw the beautiful 
words of tlie anthem in a light I never viewed them 
before, and I longed to have strength from heaven to 
resist the wrong, and do right for the future. And 
these emotions, when Mrs. Dash asked me to tell the 
story, were the cause of my strange behavior. 

Mrs. Belmont. — I can not tell you, my dear j'oung 
friend, how happy this statement has made me, for 
you, thus feeling your own weakness, and looking abo\-e 
for your strength, will obtain the " wisdom" spoken of 
in James, 3d chapter, and 17th verse. 

Miss Brilliant. — And will you not, my dear Mrs. 
Belmont, be my friend and counsellor, and help me to 
begin life anew ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — I am your sincere friend, and if I am 
capable of giving you counsel or aid at any tirne, I will 
most cheerfully do it ; but your greatest help must come 
from on high, for the Maker of the human heart is surely 
the most powerful Regulator of its emotions, and " from 
the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh." \_Mrs. 
Belmont then rose, and handing the marker partly ivorked 
bu little Fanny, said'} : I and my children have formed 



168 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ourselves into a hond, which we haA'e playfully called 
the " Anti-evil Speaking Society," and the motto which 
Fannie is working on tliis marker is to be, " Speak not 
evil one of another." We are all pledged to do what 
we can to discourage evil speaking in ourselves or 
others, and every time we transgress, we will have to 
pay a fine of five cents. This will act as a check, and 
to remind us of our duty. 

Miss Brilliant. — Oh, that is a most admirable idea ! 
an Anti-evil Speaking Society — and original, I suppose. 

Mrs. Belmont. — No, it originated with Mary; she 
suggested it, and I suggested the fines. 

Miss Brilliant. — I wish 3'oa would let me join it, 
Mrs. Belmont, for I need all the checks I can have, to 
overcome my besetting sin. 

Mrs. Belmont [laughing']. — With all my heart, my 
dear. The children have made me President, so I'll 
enroll j^our name at once. 

Miss Brilliant. — Well, Mrs. Belmont, it is the first 
time that I ever felt a wish that the i)oor should not be 
benefited. I really hope they wont get a cent from me, 
but I fear they will get dollars. 

Mrs. Belmont. — If there is not one cent finds its way 
to the box as a fine, I propose, as the President, that we 
place dollars for the poor in another box, as a thank- 
offering for being delivered from so gross and degrad- 
ing a crime ! I can call it by no better name. 

Miss Brilliant. — Our motto at a distance, may do 
very well for others, Mrs. Belmont, but as for me, I 
must have it very near me all the time ; so I will just 
call on my way home [rising'] and hand this to the 
jeweler, [taking a heavy plain gold ring from her finger,] 
and have these words engraved upon it — " Hpeak not 
evil one of another. ^^ 



SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 169 

CHOOSING A TRADE OR PROFESSION. 

CHARACTERS. 
Hall. Swain. BEAi>f. Meeks. Teacher. 



Hall. — Say, Swain, who, that is now in this school, 
will make the greatest figure in the world ? Do vou 
think there is one that will ever be President of the 
United States ? 

Swain. — Your questions, Hall, are easier asked than 
answeied. You know as well as I who are the best 
scholars, who are the best in the ball alley, and who 
are the most popular every where about the school. 

Hall. — Do you believe there is one that will ever be 
a member of Congress, a governor of some State, or 
even a member of the Legislature ? 

Swain. — I do not know about that. Time often 
brings about wonderful things. Lincoln never attended 
as good a school as this ; and perhaps 1 might say the 
same of Washington. But these great and good men 
made the best use of such opportunities as were in 
their reach. The}'- were more studious than some in 
this school. 

Hall. — Now, Swain, I know that you intend to be 
something in the world ; what would you like best to 
be? 

Swain. — I think that I shall be w^ell satisfied with 
farming. 

Hall. — What 1 with all the scientific learning that 

you w.U acquire in [liere use the name of the 

school where this piece is spoken.^ and perhaps a college 
course besides, and A. M attached to your name, would 
you then condescend to be nothing but a country clod- 
hopper ? 

Swain. — Don't speak in such disrespectful terms of 
that business which is the main source of every bodj-'s 
living. Before you talk so, learn to live without eating 
or wearing any thing that has grown on a farm. Some 
of our best men have been larmers. Some of the best 
governors and members of Congress have been invite^' 



170 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to those exalted positions from rural homes. When 
a man is thus honorably promoted from a secluded 
home, if he have the benefit of a good scientific and 
literary education acquired in his 3'outh at some 
good institution, how great his advantage I And tlien 
DO one leads a more honorable and independent life 
than the farmer. If he be a scholar, and take delight 
in scientific and literary pursuits, he can find entertain- 
ment with his books, while his crops are growing. 
Think of Washington, who, after gaining the independ- 
ence of his country and aiding in establishing a new 
form of government, then retired from public life and 
engaged in agriculture. 

Hall. — I see the force of your reasoning. [Enter 
Dean.'] 

Dean. — What now, Swain? 3'ou seem to he giving a 
touch of the sublime ! 

Swain. — I was just setting forth some of my ideas 
about farming as a business. 

Hall. — Yes, Dean, and he has almost persuaded me 
to be a farmer. 

Dean. — It would be well if many people who are look- 
ing to some profession that they imagine will be genteel 
and dignified could be altogether persuaded to be satis- 
fied with life on a farm; even some now in this institu- 
tion. 

Hall. — Do 3'ou include me in that list ? 

Dean. — I mean no personalities, but future time and 
circumstances will disclose what position you and others 
in this school are best adapted to fill. 

Hall. — Now, since the subject is fairly opened, tell 
me, Dean, what business would you like best ? 

Dean. — I'll tell you some time. [JEnter Weeks.'] 

Meeks. — Talking about business, are you ? well, then, 
let me join your company, and hear some of 3'our ideas 
about the pursuits of life. 

Swain. — All right, Meeks, what have you in view? 

Meeks. — I am not yet fairly decided about that. I 
intend first to get a good education, and then see what 
prospect opens for me. What do you intend to do, 
Hall? 

Hall. — I intend to graduate ; then pitch into legal 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 171 

studies, and after practicing law for a few years, I will 
aim for going to Congress. 

Dean. — It will be well for you, if your means are 
equal to the wants of your ambition. You may very 
much miss your aim. 

]1all. — You know the saying — " He who aims at the 
Run may not reach his object, but he will be likely to 
shoot higher than if he aimed at something on the 
earth. ' So if I never roach the Senate, I shall expect 
to attain some position higher than common life. 

Dean. — You would do well to bear in mind the fact 
that some of our would-be-great men have used them- 
selves up in just such ambitioiis schemes as you now 
entei'tain, and then did not attain the grand object of 
their wishes. If every man went to Congress that 
wishes to go, Washington City would not hold tliem all; 
but if none were allowed to go, but such as are well 
qualified, I believe that there would be many vacant 
places in the Capitol. 

Meeks. — Hold on, or you may discourage him iu his 
grand pi'ojects. 

Dean. — Well, then, I will change the subject. I sup- 
pose that you look to the ministry. 

Meeks. — I will not say that I do, nor that I do not. 
I intend, after graduating, to proceed as Providence 
opens the way. 

Swain. — That is sensible, Meeks. I hope the right 
thing for you will soon be opened to you. 

Hall. — If he looks to the ministry, why not decide 
on it now, and then look to the pastorship of a good 
church, or perhaps a bishoprick ? 

Swain. — Time enough to think about that after a few 
years of successful pastorship in a common church, or 
a few years of circuit-riding. He might be very useful 
ai either capacity. 

Dean. — Well, it takes all kinds of people to fill the 
world. We must have farmers, mechanics, merchants, 
and professional men. All are useful in their places. 

Hali. — The most of our students are looking to 
some of tlie learned professions. I suppose that I shall 
have the pleasure of calling 3' ou Doctor Dean sometime. 

Dean.- -Wait till you see that on my sign, and 



172 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

the emblems of a physician's oflSce in my windows. 
[^Unter teacher.^ 

Teacher. — Young gentlemen, I have overheard a 
part of your conversation about the choice of business. 
A judicious choice in this particular will be one of the 
greatest things of 3'our lives. If you wish for some of 
my ideas about it I will tell j'ou what they are with 
pleasure. 

Meeks. — I would like to hear you. 

All the others. — Go on ! Speak on ! 

Teacher. — I believe that all persons are designed to 
be useful in some way; and every person in his pupil- 
age should strive to ascertain what this particular voca- 
tion is likely to be. Your studies should develop your 
abilities and capacities, and your learning should qualify 
3'ou for future usefulness, and for living in such a way 
that the world will be the better for what 3-ou shall have 
done in 3'our lifetime. A man's life is a failure when 
after his death it can be only said ot him that the world 
has not been benefited by his having lived in it. Consider 
now the character of the difterent pursuits of life, and 
what is necessary for success in each of them ; and your 
ability and adaptation in them, as well as their respec- 
tive uses ; then ma}^ j^ou expect to learn where and how 
you can be most appropriately employed. It is wise to 
trust in Providence. When your merits and 3'our ac- 
quirements become well known, ^-ou may be invited to 
some dignified and honorable position in church or state 
that you do not now anticipate. To whatever 3'ou look 
do not despise labor. Farmers and mechanics are the 
bone and sinew of a nation. They should be educated 
as well as any others; they, too, can enjoy scientific and 
literary pursuits as well as any people. Do not despise 
labor because 3'ou have a scientific education. Do not 
foist 3'ourselves into some of the learned professions 
because they appear to 3'ou genteel and dignifie<l. 
Some of them are now too much crowded. The Chiis- 
tian ministry is truly a noble and glorious calling. It 
may not advance you to wealth, but by it you will do 
good for 3'our fellow-beings, and have the blessinr; of 
heaven to rest upon 3'ou. Other professions and all 
trades lo^k mainl3^ to the acquisition of wealth ; and i 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 173 

neel not now speak of the demoralizing influence of in- 
oi'dinate ambition for this. But I will remind you that 
a rational education v/ill counteract this and all other 
evil influences in the ditferent vocations of life. 

It is not for me to dictate what should be your chosen 
vocation, but j'our natural inclination, your acquired 
learning, and the judgment of your wise friends who 
will sometime see your merits, will direct you to the 
place that j'ou should fill. Young gentlemen, I now 
leave the subject with you ; think about it and act ac- 
cording the best of your judgment. [_Exit Teacher.'] 

Dean. — There, fellows, what think you now about 
choosing a trade or a profession ? 

Swain. — The more I think of agriculture as an 
employment, the more interest I feel in it. I en- 
dorse the language of my favorite poet : — 

"Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men 
The happiest he ! who far from pubhc rage, 
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, 
Drinks the pure pleasures of the Eural Life." 

That's the life for me. \_Exit Swain.] 

Meeks. — As for me, I hope to see my way to honor 
and usefulness when I finish my scientific studies 
But now I feel an inward monition that saj's, Live not 
in vain ! Live to do good ! But I can not now say 
much about it. [Exit 3Ieeks.] 

Hall. — Swain and Meeks seem to be quite set on 
leading a humble career; and how eagerly they swal- 
lowed the teacher's discourse ! 

Dean. — They talve quite a common sense view of 
trades and professions. What do you think now about 
your schemes ? 

Hall. — Not discouraged ! A few years after I 

graduate at [here use the name of some college 

often talked about where this piece is spoken] perhaps 
5 on will hear from me. 

Dean. — AVhen you reach the pinnacle of your glory, 
fornemljer those who were once your fellow-learners in 
this school, and then come and visit me in my humble 
abode. [Exeunt.] 



174 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



CHILD-PHILOSOPHY. 

LiLLiE. — 1 shan't stand it! I wont 1 I do declare 1 
It is the most absurd thing I ever knew 1 If it is not 
enough to provoke a saint! ! 

MiNA. — What is that, Lillie ? Did you saj^ you were 
going to be a saint ? 

LiLLiE. — No ! any thing but that ! 

MiNA. — Why I Did you not say you felt like a saint? 

LiLLiE. — How should I know how saints feel ? It is 
bad enough to feel like one's self, and I know that I feel 
very much provoked! 

MiNA. — Wh}^ that is funny 1 

Lillie. — W^ell, I don't see any fun in it ! 

MiNA. — But, see here, Lillie ; tell me what 

Lillie. — Don't talk to me ! I am too much vexed! 

MiNA. — But, Lillie, do tell me — what has annoyed 
you so much — come ! What is it ? You will tell me ? 
Won't 3'ou ! 

Lillie. — Whj^ ! people treat me so ! ! 

MiNA. — Do they ? That is too bad ! What have they 
done ? 

Lillie. — Why, they think at our house that I am 
nothing but a little snip of a girl ! They think the}' 
can say any thing to me ! I am of no consequence at 
all! And here 1 am, nearlj'^ ten years old ! And j'^ou 
see how very tall, and womanly looking I am ! I think 
it is abominable ! 1 

MiNA. — Well, so it is, Lillie ! 

Lillie. — Oh, yes ! I must be good ! I must not be 
rude ! I must do every thing, just so 1 and yet, when I 
want any thing — Oh ! I am only a little girl ! ! 

MiNA. — It is too bad ! 

Lillie. — Don't you tell any body, Mina ! There ia 
my sister Bell — (now, if she is a young lady, why 
shouldn't I be ?) She went off to Saratoga with trunks 
lull of dresses and mantles and shawls, waterfalls, Gre- 
ci'in curls, nets, (oh, beauties 1) two new bracelets, em- 
broideries, handkerchiefs, and all kinds of bright ribbons, 
and every thing nice 1 — and I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 175 

MiNA. — But Bell is eight years older than you are, 
you know ? 

LiLLiE. — That is nothing 1 Age has nothing to do 
with it 1 If it had, why doesn't mother go off and dresa 
and ride and have good times? But here I am, ex 
pected to behave like a lady, and I ought to be treated 
like one ! 

MiNA. — Well, is that all? Have you told me all 
your troubles ? 

LiLLiE. — No ! not half 1 There is my brother George, 
ae talks to me as if I was good for nothing but waiting 
on other people. Just a little mite ! Calling out Lillie, 
here ! or, Lillie, there ! Bring me this ! or, bring me 
that I I don't mind running up and down stairs for 
liim, and helping him, for he is real nice, and bringing 
him his slippers and his papers and his dressing-gown 
and his cigars and his cane and his books and his 
Florida water 1 But then, why doesn't he take me out 
riding with him in his new wagon ? Why doesn't he ask 
me to walk in the park ? Why don't I sit up late at 
night in the parlor ? I think 1 deserve it — don't 3'ou ? 

MiNA. — Wh}^ don't you speak to your brother and 
sister, and tell them how you feel ? 

Lillie. — Yes! That is just what tries me sol George 
gives me a paper of candy, and says I look so small — 
that it sounds cunning to hear me talk! And Bell says, 
Pshaw 1 child ! run away, and play with your dolls I You 
must not think about such things for years to come! 

MiNA. — What does your mother sajf ? 

Lillie. — Oh ! mother says I am only making trouble 
for myself — that these are my happiest days. But, 
dear me I how can that be ? 

MiNA. — I guess she is right, Lillie ! That is just 
what my mother says ! 

Lillie. — Well, I don't believe it! If people mean 
what they sa}^ why don't they act it? If they are hap- 
piest at home, why don't they stay at home? If fine 
clothes are such a care and trouble, why do they have 
them ? If sitting up late at night injures their health, 
vihy don't they go to bed at eight o'clock, like me? If 
jellies, and creams, and pickles are so very good for 
older people, I don't see how they can be so very bad 



176 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

for mc ? Oh, I don't tliiiik a few years ought to make 
such a difference ! And I tell you I am not going to 
stand it ! It is not right ! If I am nothing but a child, 
let me act as a child ! And if I am a little womrm, 
then treat me as a woman ; and I shall never be sacis- 
fied until they dol 



THE NOBLEST HERO. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Mr. Manly, the schoolmaster. 

Mrs. Truman. 

Frank Truman, ^ 

Joe Martin, 

Henry Mo r ley, >■ Scholars. 

Clark Richmond, 

Lewis Hermann, 



Scene 1. — School-room, class standing. 

Mr. M. — Now, boys, I promised you a new study for 
Monday, and as it is Friday I will give you the sub- 
ject now. It is — What Constitutes the True Hero — 
and you m.ay, if you choose, give an example of the no- 
blest hero of whom you have ever read. 

Frank. — May we ask our friends about it, or must 
we find out for ourselves ? 

Mr. M. — I prefer that you should find out for your- 
selves. 

Henry. — We may look in books, may n't we ? 

Mr. M. — Certainly. Any books which you can find 
to give you any light upon the subject. It is the hour 
for dismissal; put away 3'our books, and when 3'ou come 
out be sure to lock the door. [Eait Mr. M.'] 

Clark. — Who under the sun is the greatest hero ? I 
can't guess. 

Lewis. — You're not expected to guess, 3'ou're to 
think. 

Joe. — It is not very hard. I think I know mine 
already. 

Fhank. — I should know mine if I thought Mr. Manlj 



SCiTOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 177 

^eant what we are thiukiug of. But he smiled so oddly 
when he told us the subject, that I suspect he means 
more than we think he does. 

Clark. — Well, come home ; we can talk it over after- 
ward. I am as hungrj^ as I can be. [^Exit all.'] 

S^ENE 2. — A parlor simply furnished. Mrs. Truman 
and Frank Truman sitting at a table. Frank in deep 
thought. 

Frank. — Mother 1 

Mrs. T. — Well, Frank 1 what is it? You seem to be 
more thoughtful than usual. 

Frank. — Yes, mother ; because our new teacher gave 
us such a queer subject for our lesson next Monday 
morning. 

Mrs. ^T.— Well, what was it, Frank ? 

Frank. — It was — What Constitutes a True Hero— 
and I can not make up my mind; and we are not per- 
mitted to ask anybody. 

Mrs. T. [^smiling']. — Well, Frank, then I am afraid I 
can not help you. 

Frank {leaning his head on his hand, thinks ; but 
suddenly jumping up exclaims'].— I have it ! I have it, 
mother! {Buns from the room.] 

Mrs, T. — I am sure I hope he has, as he has tried so 
hard. lExit Mrs. T] 

Scene 3. — Monday morning, the street before the school- 
house. Enter Henry and Lewis at ojyposite doors. 

H;^-NRY. — Well, Lewis, have you your hero? 

Lewis. — Yes, indeed, Henry. It did not take me long 
to think who I should have. 

Henry. — AVell ! where are the others? It seems to 
me they'll be late if they don't hurry. 

{Enter Frank, Clark, and Joe.] 

Lewis. — Here the}^ are ! Good-morning 1 

Joe. — Got your hero, Lou? 

Lewis {slapjnng his jacket]. — Yes, all right; safe 
here in my jiocket. 

Clark. — He must be a lorecious small hero if he is 
in that pocket. 
12 



178 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lewis. — He may turn out bigger than yotiis, who 
knows ? though he is in such a small space. 

Frank. — Yes, Lou is right ; it is not always the 
largest bundle which contains the most valuable article. 
[Unter Mr. ilf.] 

Henry. — Well, here is Mr. Manly. 

Mr. M. — Good-morning, boys 1 

All. — Good-mornincc, sir. 

Mr. M. — I hope your heroes are all chosen? 

All. — Yes, sir ; we are all ready. \_Exeunt all."] 

Scene 4. — ScJiool-room. Boys seated. 

Mr. M. — Well, boys, I'll call upon each in turn for 
his idea of what constitutes a hero, and for your chosen 
one. Well, Joe, you may speak first. 

Joe. — I think, sir, that heroes should have great tal- 
ents, and should never be afraid of any one ; but should 
conquer all their enemies. 

Mr. M. — Well, certainly, you are quite- right, as far 
as 3'ou go ; but have j'ou not omitted any thing ? 

Joe. — I could not think of any otlier necessary quality, 
sir. 

Mr. M. — Well ! we will hear what the others say ; bat 
who is 3'our hero ? 

Joe. — Alexander the Great. 

Mr. M. — Truly j'ou have chosen a great conqueror ; 
but I am afraid he lacks some qualities which I should 
wish my hero to have. Is^ow, Clark, tell us your defini- 
tion. 

Clark. — I think, sir, that a hero should be generous 
and forgiving; but, at the same time, firm and un- 
daunted, a Jul should love his country more than his 
life. And 1 have chosen Washington. 

Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Clark, j'our definition is 
good, and 3^our choice is a noble one. Now, let us hear 
Henry. 

Henry. — I, sir, have chosen Cromwell ; but I fear he 
is not the right kind of hero, as I think he fought for 
himself quite as much for the liberty of the English 
from Charles the First's tyranny. Though I did not 
think of that before Clark spoke. 

Mr, M.— I believe you are right, Henry, though it is 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 179 

a disputed point whether he did all for himself or not. 
Now, Lewis, who is your hero ? 

Lewis. — I, sir, chose Washington, but as Clark has 
taken him, I will choose Abraham Lincoln, who was so 
kind and merciful, so just and good that he can stand 
side by side with Washington in our love and respect. 

Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Lewis. I am much 
]ileased that j'ou should have chosen him. Now, Frank, 
tell us your thoughts, we have heard all the rest. 

Frank. — I, sir, thought for a long time over all the 
heroes of ancient times, but none suited me ; they all 
wanted something. Then I thought of the Bible verse : 
"He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; 
and he that ruleth his spirit than he thattaketh a city." 
I took that as my definition, and I add to it generosity, 
self-devotion, and self-sacrifice. 

Mr. M. — Truly, Frank, you are right. For [turning 
to the audience,'] 

" The noblest Hero of the whole 
Is he who can himself control." 
[^Exeunt omnes.'] 



WOMEN'S mGHTS. 

CHAEACTERS. 



Five Boys. 

PoM.Y Si-MPSON, a tall, slender spinster. 

Nancy Lawrknce. a strong-minded lady. 

Granny 8nari„ a slender spinster, with a blue cotton handker- 
chief bound tightly around her head, and tied in a bow knat 
behind. 

Simon Vii.df.rblows, a small, inferior-looking old bachelor. 

[All seated near a desk, excepting the boys, who are in the 
back part of the house.] 



Polly Simpson prising']. — The first thing in order will 
be to choose some one to preside over this meeting. I 
nominate Sister Snarl for president. 

Nancy Lawrence. — I second the nomination. 

Polly Simpson. — It is moved and seconded that Sis- 



180 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ter Snarl be president of this meeting. If this be ycr 
minds, please manifest it by saying a^'e. 

All. — Aye ! aye ! 

Polly Simpson. — 'Tis a vote. Sister Snarl will now 
take the desk. 

\_Granny nr w marches to the desk, while Polly takes 
a seat at her elbow'] 

Granny Snarl. — Sister Simpson will now read ye the 
resolutions. 

Polly Simpson \jHses and reads']. — Resolved, That the 
awful state our country is in, bids us wimmen folks do 
something right off'. 

Resolved, That as, under the present rule of the men, 
we are alreadj' in a deplorable condition, which grows 
worse and worse every day, we wiranien folks will take 
matters in hand, seize the reins of government, and 
make better steerage than they do. 

Resolved, That to put a stop to this war, and to make 
peace, which shall be thorough and endurable, and to 
bring down vittals and things, so as not to have so man^T^ 
paupers for the town to sui)port, we will go to the bal- 
lot-box at the next annual town-meeting, and elect, if 
possible, competent women to take charge of the public 
business. 

Granny Snarl. — If it be yer minds to accept these, 
you'll please say aye. 

All. — Aye ! aj^e ! 

Granny Snarl. — It's a vote. Sister Simpson will 
now continue her remarks. 

Polly Simpson [liemming and bowing, and clearing 
her throat, proceeds to speak]. — Fellow-citizens : This is 
an awful state that our country is in just now, and 
every thing is growing worse and worse. Goods, and 
such like, are so dreadful high that we'll soon be unable 
to live at all, and it's all owing to the mismanagement of 
the men folks. Now, if we wimmen folks take things in 
hand, and follow these resolutions, things will soon get 
to going straight along, and then decent folks can live. 
The men folks \'\?cvq mismanaged i\\Q business long enough, 
but the wimmen folks must manage it hereafter. 

Granny Snarl. — Mrs. Lawrence will now express her 
viev's of the subject. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 181 

Nancy Lawrence. — You all know that what Sister 
Simpson has said is true Our country is in a deplorable 
condition, just on account of the mismanagement of the 
men folks now-a-days. Why, when my tirst husband, 
Mr. Whitecoml), was alive, I was happy, and had the 
good times. Ah ! I then had a kind companion ; he 
knew how to manage an' keep all strings a-pullin'. But 
times, alas ! have changed. I now have to look out, not 
only for number one, but for number two, also. I have 
to work like a dog, an' see to all the business myself, 
'cause if I didn't ever}' thing'd go to rack and ruin. 
It's no use to arguefy the p'int — no use at all — some- 
thing's got iohe done, and that something right straight 
off, as Sister Simpson says. I've no more to sa} . Let 
deeds, not words, be our battle-cry. 

Granny Snarl. — We will now hear what Mr. Vilder- 
blows has to say on the subject. 

Simon Vilderblows. — Things is going on to ruin as 
fast as they can go, fellow-citizens, an' I'm most dread- 
fully afeard it's owing, as has been told you, to the mis- 
management of us men folks. I, for one, approve of 
letting the women rule. Do this, and my word for't, 
things will get cheaper, and poor folks like us'U have 
some chance to live. Yes, my friends, pork is gettin' 
to be monstrous high. Bimeby we shan't have enough 
to put into baked beans, and then what shall we do ? I 
don't know what we shall do unless we put in pitch-knots 
instid of pork. Western pork, they say, is fattened on 
rattlesnakes, and who wants to eat serpents 'long o' 
their tea an' coffee ? As to raising our own pork, why, 
corn, p'taters, an' sich like, is so awful dear and skerse, 
that if it so happens we do have a little to spare, we're 
obliged to take it to bu}' West Injee goods, and so forth. 
Then if we kill our hogs in the full of the moon, it'll 
shrink, yon know, and there, again, is a loss. I raised 
a nice spring pig this year, and t'other day, as we's most 
out o' meat, and he'd got to bo fat's a poirpoise, I 
thought best to kill him. So I put on the water a-heat- 
in', got the scaldin' tub an' other things ready. Well, 
says I to John, my hired man, it's now full moon, an' 
some say'f you kill hogs on the full they won't shrink. 
But, however, says I, bein's the moon's so fur off. I'm 



182 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 

pesky afeard she wont keep the pork from shrinking. 
But, John, there's one thing I do know, says I, and that 
is, if we scald him at just liigh tide, he wont lose an 
ounce by skrinkin'. Yes, says John, I know this to be 
tiue, for I've often seen it tried. Well, suj's I, I tell 
you what I'll do, John ; Til let my sister — you know mj' 
sister, Widder Small, fellow-citizens, what keeps house 
for me — I'll let her take the almanac, an' watch the 
clock, an' when it's just high water, she'll sing out, an' 
we'll stick and souse the critter. So, to suit me. Sis- 
ter Small stuck a mark in our almanac — ^3'our old Kob- 
ert B.'s — where it told the high tide, an' took her station 
at the door. Well, when 'twas about high tide, John 
and I lugged out the water to the tub, an' caught the 
hog. Pretty soon Sister Small sings out " High tide 1" 
Ton that 1 stuck him with a butcher-knife and he bled 
like a serpent. In with him, says I. We then give him 
a rousin' scaldin' an' dressed an' weighed him. Well, 
next day I weighed him agin, an', dear me! don't you 
think, he''d shrunk ten j^ounds and a half! Something's 
to pay, says I. Into the house I hurried, and says I, 
Sister, get me the almanac, and let me see where you 
found, where't tells high water. The almanac was got. 
I looked into it where she'd put a mark, an' as true's 
my name is Simon Vilderblows, if she hadn't made a 
mistake an' got a last year's one ! This explains it all, 
says I, and I've lost jest ten and a half pounds of nice, 
sweet pork by sister's not been keerful 'bout lookin' at 
the date. The schoolmaster happening along I told him 
my misfortins, an' he only smiled and said 'twas, done 
by evaporation. I told him he had better stick to his 
Albrega, an' not talk of what he did'nt know nothing 
about. My friends, I've nothing more to say, I feel 
that we are in a good cause, an' desarve success. 

Polly Simpson [^rising']. — I should be pleased to hear 
something from our president. Sister Snarl, can't you 
say something for the good of the cause ? 

Granny Snarl. — Men folks, women folks, an' feller- 
citizens' greetin 1 [^She atop s and blows her nose with 
a ragged red 2:)0cket-handkerchief when the hoys roar 
aloud^ Stop yer larfln' up there'n the back seat ! Ye 
«m't but little better than heathen ! Wont some one 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 183 

what's a friend to woman's rights go an' larn them tar- 
nups what manners is, an' stop their disturbin' this 
meetin' ? 

Simon Yilderblows. — I hope you bo3's will be civil 
there on the back seat. 

Granny Snarl. — Feller-citizens, I would like to say 
a good deal, but you see I've got a terrible cold [_she 
coughs'] ; got it a killin' my hog, which, by the way, was 
a buster, for he weighed two hundred and thirty pounds 
arter he's dressed and his liver taken out. Hogs like 
that are skerse in these diggins, you'd l)etter believe 
\the boys laugh']. There now I it's jest as Sister Simpson 
has often said, the risin' gineration is -an awful set of 
bein's. They don't know a mite better than to come to 
sech a solemn an' interestin' meetin' as this an' laif, an' 
haw haw, an' hee hee, jests if 'twas a circus, panorandle, 
or nigger concert. I've been afeared all along that if 
we wimmen folks didn't take the reins in our own hands 
the re 'd be war an' bloodshed an' every thing else that's 
bad. And jest what I'se afeard on has come to pass ; 
we've got inter trouble with our mother country, an' 
ilear only knows when 'twill eend. I haint had a good 
dish o' Young Hyson this six mouths ; an' what's more, 
I never shall, unless we wimmen folks rise rite up an' let 
em know who's who and what's what. Then, as Sister 
Simpson, an' Sister Lawrence, and Brother Yilderblows 
have jest said, coffee's riz, sweetening's riz, an' every 
thing else we have to buy has riz accordingly ; and, fel- 
low-citizens, they'll keep goin' up, till bimeby we shall 
be on the town, and then who'll take keer o' the poor? 
And what's to he done ? methinks I hear 3^e all ax. I'll 
tell ye what's to be done. Let the wimmen take charge 
on the government, put in some good lady, like Sister 
Simpson, here, for Town Clark, an' sech wimmen as Sis- 
ter Lawrence for Seleckmen and then if the men folks 
wants any of the small offices, sech as hog-reef or sur- 
veyor, why, we'll let 'em have 'em provided they'll swear 
to support the constitution of the United States. Do 
this, and you'll see how quick sugar, molasses, and other 
West Injee goods would come down! I shan't ask for 
any office myself, 'cause I haint got much of a school 
edication, and I don't want to take sech responsibility 



184 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

on niy poor shoulders : but then ye know my vote'll tell. 
Now, something has got to be done right a way — the 
sooner the better, Sister Simpson an' myself have talked 
the matter over and made up our minds to do some- 
thing. 

Boy. — The President will pardon my interruption, I 
rise to move that a contribution be taken up to defray 
the expenses of this meeting. 

Another boy. — 1 second the motion. 

Granny Snarl. — Yer real kind, j-e be! We'll now 
take a vote. All who's in favor of passin' round the 
hat to git money to pay for firewood, lights, an' sech 
like, will please say aye. 

All. — Aye ! aye ! 

Granny Snarl. — 'Tis a vote, sartin's the world. The 
gentleman who's so kind as to think of payin' expenses, 
will he please carry round the hat, while Sister Simpson 
reads that little ditty she's writ for the occasion ! [Boy 
takes round the hat.'] Sister Simpson will now deliver 
the ditty. It's proper nice I kin tell ye, I've heard it 
once. 

Polly Simpson [reads in a loud, sharp voice'] 

ODE in behalf of WIMMENS RIGHTS. 

The men are real obstropolus, 

Tliey wont mind their own biz- 
Iness, and tliat's the reason wliy 

That tea and lasses both has riz : 
And every thing that we do eat, 

And every thing that we do wear, 
Have got to be so awful high — 

AVhat shall we do, I do declare ! 

Molasses once was four and six ; 

But now two dollars we nuist give; 
And liquor, too, is such a price 

'J'hat tavern-l^eepers scarce can live ; 
And when last Sunday I'se at church, 

I heard Parson Jenkins m his 
Sermon say, that flour and corn, 

And ev(try liind of thing has riz. 

Now don't you see the reason is 

The men are so obstropokis — 
They will not let tJie wimmen vote, 

And thing" is growing worse and worse. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 185 

Now, we mast rise and let 'em know 
Wliat our rights be : and then, I guess, 

That all kinds of West Ingee goods 
In prices will grow less and less ! 

Now we have all met here to-night — 

Sisters Lawrence, Snarl and I, 
And Mr. Vilderblows. and all 

The rest of us — to see and try 
To lay some plan to ease our lot 

And make things cheap, and make a law, 
Whereby all fighting shall be stopped, 

And never have another war. 

Now every woman that does live 

In any part of Greensboro,' 
Must rise on next town meeting day, 

And to the ballot-box must go : 
And then must vote — and then, I guess, 

Once more will have a good, brisk biz- 
Iness, and shall no longer hear, 

That every kind t)f thing has riz. 

[T7?,e boy who carried round the hat, now deposits its 
contents on the desk (contents being a promiscuous 
mixture of buttons, nails, chips, and just five large 
coppers), and says to the President ;] 

Boy. — The amount of money is not so great as I 
hoped to get, but still there's sufticient to pay the ex 
pense of oil and candles. And here let me say, I feel 
assured, that when the community shall awaken to a 
full sense of the importance of the glorious cause in 
which 3'ou, our honored President, and your patriotic 
colleagues, have so nobly engaged, they will rally around 
your bright banner, and put forward this great work 
toward its final consummation. That your praiseworthy 
and disinterested efforts may be crowned with ultimate 
success, is the heartfelt hope of your humble servant. — > 
[^Bowing, retires.'] 

Granny Snarl. — Bless ye! you're a noble-hearted 
creetur I \_Putting the money in her pocket, and with her 
hand sweeping the buttons, etc., off the desk."] If all the 
men-folks was sich as you be, there'd be no need of us 
wimmen-folks takiu' matters in hand. 

Polly Simpson. — The President had better put the 
funds in the handr of the collector, and let him settle the 



186 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

bills. He has already proved himself an honest and 
patriotic soul. Let him be our treasurer, by all means. 

Granny Snarl. — Oh, I kin take keer on the funds 
myself 

Polly Simpson. — But 'twould be better to do as 1 
have suggested. 

Granny Snarl. — I tell ye I kin take keer of it my- 
self 

Polly Simpson. — I know you'd take care of it, and iu 
such a way as wouldn't benefit the society. 

Granny Snarl. — What's that ! D'ye think I'm in- 
clined to cheat the public ? \_Granny shakes her fid.'] 

Polly Simpson. — 1 haint said it. 

Granny Snarl. — Well, ye mean it, if ye haint said it. 

Polly Simpson. — Yes, madam, I do mean it, and 
say it, too. I wouldn't trust you any further than I can 
see you. I've heard, 'fore now, of people's stealin' lard 
and flax ; but I wont call names, for that aint my natur. 

Granny Snarl. — Yer a miserable, low-lived, sharp- 
nosed, old scamp ! You not onl}^ want wimmen's rights 
in gineral, but ye mean to take away my rights, too. 
Accuse me of stealin' right afore folks,, do ye? I'll fix 
ye, you old Satin, one o' these da,ys ! 

Nancy Lawrence. — I call the "house to order ! 

Granny Snarl. — Better call that old pirate to order 1 

Polly Simpson. — I call the president to order ! 

Granny Snarl. — Call me to order, he}^ ? Now comes 
the time for reckonin' old lady ! [springing toioard Polly.'] 

All. — Order ! order I order ! 

All. — Adjourn ! adjourn 1 adjourn ! 



THE ORPHAN'S TRUST. 

Scene. — A gipsy camp in the background. A young 
girl discovered in the act of withdrawing her hand 
from that of the Gipsy Queen. 

Gipsy. — 

Not care to know yom' future, blue-eyed maiden? 
Who loves you. whom you love, and whom shall wed? 
What laces, satins, jewels, he will give you ; 
Wbat acres, palaces and rentals, Zeave you; 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUKS. 187 

How rich must be her thoughts, how treasure-laden ; 
To crowd such common hopes and dreams from that young, 
golden head 1 

Maiden. — 
Ah ! gipsey, but I love ! I love, dark sister ! 
The hand 1 worship robed this earth with bloom: 
His glory clothes each far off, wandering planet ; 
Yet loving eyes in tiniest flowers may scan it, 
And, with sweet fervency of heart, adore ! 
Thus my sweeet mother taught me; living, dying: 
And, passing hence, so wide she left the door 
Of that fair upper world, I scarce have missed her, 
Or grieved her 'midst the songs of Heaven with crying: 
So smiles Our Father's grace, e'en on the darksome tomb 1 

Gipsy. — 
Thvlce happy maid ! my love is all unneeded, 
Where faith and love like thine, assure the heart ! 
Yet deem by sooth, for common human feelings. 
Your starry gems have true and bright revealings. 
And, though full oft, through idle scorn unheeded, 
The voice of God and fate, speaks through my mystic art I 




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